Forgotten Regrets
by LKY
Summary: This is the lastest in my "Sins of Our Mothers" Universe. You might want to read the "Rainforest Caper" before making sense with this story.


The International House of Pancakes looked anything but international. Blair Sandburg sat, certain Aberdeen's entire populace had gathered within the dingy restaurant walls. The picture windows held years of cigarette smoke which clung rebelliously and yellowed the cars parked outside.  
  
"What's wrong with your pancakes, sweetie?" Naomi asked.   
  
She sat close. The five of them pressed into the wrap-around corner booth. Actually they were lucky to have gotten the table after only a mere fifteen minute wait. Blair was glad. He'd felt exposed in a tiny alcove by the front cashier. People entered and exited the restaurant, going about their normal morning activities. They'd stop and stare at him. Blair would pick at invisible dirt under his fingernails, aware of the colorful display of bruises on his face.  
  
Yeah, the corner table was better.  
  
"Do you want some fruit?" She nudged her side bowl a little closer in response to his mute head shake.  
  
Blair noticed the pain lines around her mouth and eyes. God, the woman was healing from a gunshot wound and she was worried about his stomach. Were the others watching? He hoped Naomi wasn't going to pick now to get all maternal on him.  
  
"No, thanks." Blair used the side of his fork and started cutting precise little pancake squares. He'd poured way too much syrup, some kind of berry. It flowed over his breakfast and filled the concave plate like…  
  
Spilt blood.  
  
Shit.  
  
"Chief?" Jim's whisper came from Blair's other elbow as he leaned down close to Blair's ear. "You okay?"  
  
Yeah, sure, Jim. I'm fine. Blair nodded while his fork hand trembled and continued to mangle the pancakes into less than perfect bite-sized shapes. He could do breakfast. He could act normal for an hour or so.   
  
Well, maybe not. The table edge crushed into his gut. The back of the booth shoved. The floor pushed. The ceiling pressed. Jim's large hand covered Blair's knee and squeezed, in and out, like a kneading jungle cat, giving Blair something physical to focus on. No one witnessed the un-Jim-like action or the support it provided.   
  
Blair closed his eyes briefly. The world backed off and the syrup was just that again, syrup. He took a steady breath and speared a bit of pancake, guiding it past his lips. Jim patted his knee one last time before letting him go.  
  
Normal, act normal.   
  
Blair listened to the table talk. Tristan and Simon were chatting about flying. Seems Simon's cousin was a pilot.  
  
"I'm not kidding. That trip over the mountains brought me to religion." Simon shuddered. "Robert lost us in the clouds. He'd just gotten instrument rated and looked so damn scared. Hell, we both expected to see a nesting eagle before crashing into a mountainside."  
  
"God, I hate flying in clouds," Naomi added, leaning on her non-injured hip, giving her the effect of a listing boat. "Remember that flight over Brazil, honey?" She turned to Tristan. "Thought I was going to rip the yoke right out of the floor."  
  
Tristan gave her a fond look. "You're a fantastic pilot. Best I've ever seen."  
  
Whoa. Mom flew? Blair looked at her with wonder. Was she ever going to stop surprising him?  
  
"You know…" Simon used a triangle of sourdough toast to scoop egg onto his fork. "They need to invent a pill for passengers. It erases the last three or four hours from your memory. Then all the airlines will have a boost in sales because no one will be able to remember the trip."  
  
Now that made sense, Blair set the fork down. Only he wanted the jumbo-sized pill, the one that erased days, not hours, just enough to take away that memory of the desperate escape from that mountain estate, of the fight, of picking up Jim's gun.  
  
"Actually, our doctors do have a procedure," Tristan commented casually. "Although we save it for more serious situations than bad travels."  
  
Blair looked up with interest.  
  
Really?  
  
Home.   
  
Blair shuffled through the door and let the luggage strap slip off his shoulder. The loft greeted him like a sheltered bay accepting a storm-ravaged ship. He resisted the urge to drop and kiss the floor.  
  
"Not here, Sandburg. Try and stop the clutter before it starts once in a while, okay?"  
  
Too weary to lift the large overnight bag up, Blair pulled the luggage along, ignoring Jim's long-suffering sigh. It was still early in the afternoon. After breakfast in Aberdeen, the party had broke up. He, Simon, and Jim had driven back to Cascade without stopping for lunch. Simon was dropped off at his place. Tristan and Naomi had flown directly to some undisclosed location on the East Coast for 'debriefing'.   
  
God, she had said the word as if she'd been talking about an afternoon tea with a bunch of soccer moms.   
  
Not that Blair had ever played soccer.   
  
Blair opened his bedroom door, eyes drinking in the familiarity; his unmade bed, text books littering all available flat surfaces, unwashed clothes hanging over the back of his chair, pillows everywhere. Blair sighed happily.  
  
When had he been here last? A week? Less than?   
  
Screw it. He didn't care. He was home. Naomi was safe. Life goes on.   
  
Over his head, Jim's footfalls descended from his upper bedroom. That bed was probably tidy and neat. Jim kept his clothes put away. His books stand straight and at attention on their shelves.   
  
Yuck, what a way to live.   
  
Sounds of water filling a metal container - probably Jim's pasta pot - drifted through the doorway, preparations for a late lunch or early dinner. Blair left his soft-sided suitcase on the floor and toed off his sneakers. Even rumpled, with less than fresh smelling sheets, Blair's futon beckoned to him.   
  
When Jim stood in the doorway, Blair already had his jeans off and had burrowed under the covers.   
  
"Hungry?"  
  
"Na uh," Blair mumbled into his pillow.  
  
"Later?"  
  
"Dunno."  
  
Sounds of retreating footsteps surprised him. Too easy. With a happy sigh, Blair let the exhaustion of the trip take him.  
  
Blair woke to the six o'clock news. The local weatherman was doing that annoying thing he did; a sort of deep, grating laugh after each stupid joke. Blair hated it. He hated waking up to the sound of it. Rolling to his side, he blinked at the darkened room, feeling out of sorts. Sleeping during the day reminded him of being sick.  
  
Blair hated being sick.   
  
Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and stumbling out of his room, he smelled tomato sauce, garlic and oregano. Jim was stretched out on the sofa.   
  
"Heat up some spaghetti." Not lifting his gaze from the TV, Jim waved toward the icebox.  
  
Blair dropped onto the other sofa, falling sideways with a yawn. His stomach held no interest for food. "No, thanks. Maybe later. You going into work tomorrow?"  
  
This time Jim looked over at him. "Think so, check in at least. What about you? Still spring break the rest of the week, right?"  
  
"Right." Rolling flat on his back, Blair studied the high ceiling. School. Why did the thought of returning hold no interest? A little voice in his brain answered. 'Because killers belong in prison, not in college.'   
  
Blair knew better than that. He killed a man, sure. But he'd had to. Jim's life was being choked out of him.   
  
"I think you should call that psychologist," Jim said calmly, his eyes back on the TV. The weatherman was done and they'd moved on to sports. "Set up your appointment. Your mom gave you his number, right?"  
  
"Yeah." Blair threw an arm over his eyes, the bend of his elbow centered over the bridge of his nose, cutting off the loft's light. If only he could do the same for his ears. And another for his memory. That would be sweet.   
  
The government was picking up the tab for this shrink. Good thing, too. He knew the score. No way would his insurance cover the visits. With a soft groan, he thought about the plethora of afternoon sessions; on some leather couch in an expensively furnished office with lots of green, leafy plants and some stupid indoor water fountain set up in one corner, or more likely, one of those dumb Zen sand gardens to drag the tiny little rack around in, drawing designs that got erased by the next head case…  
  
Whoa, what the hell was that all about?   
  
Blair took a deep breath and cleared his mind. God, he was depressed, and depressed enough not to give a shit.  
  
"Yeah, I got the number." Blair lifted his arm and looked at him. "So, can I go in tomorrow with you?"  
  
Jim frowned. "You'll call?"  
  
"I'll call."  
  
"Okay, then."  
  
He felt almost human again. Blair sat up straighter and watched the buildings on Prospect Street go by. Jim was taking the long way in to work, following the shoreline. The morning was cool, but promised to warm up by lunchtime. It had rained last night, leaving the buildings with a 'just washed' look. The good mood stayed with Blair all the way to the seventh floor.  
  
"Hey, guys!" Brown called out as they entered. "Welcome back. Hear the fish were as big as dead bo –." His comment was cut off as Rafe smacked his arm hard. "What?"  
  
"It's okay, man," Blair said. He'd expected a few comments along these lines. That was part of the ritual of this particular closed society. "It was gross and all. I left Jim to deal."  
  
Speaking of Jim, he looked ready to rip Brown's tongue out, tonsils and all. Blair rolled his eyes. "Hey, you want a latte? My treat? I meant to get one before coming up."  
  
Jim paused in his sorting. "Yeah, sounds good. Make mine a double, light on the caramel." He went back to lining up a dozen pink 'while you were out' slips on the desktop.   
  
Blair backpedaled toward the doorway. Jim was looking at an easy twenty minutes of paper shuffling there. "'Kay, although the offer was just a latte, you're gonna pony up the thirty cents for flavor, Caramel-man."  
  
Jim's snort followed him out into the hallway.  
  
Later, with lattes in hand, Blair and Jim made short work of the pressing matters found on his desk. The two pleasant hours of normality further helped Blair's mood. In fact, he was starting to think the last couple of days could be closed and filed, like the final report he had just proofread for Jim.   
  
Jim took the offered report and slipped it between the other files in the cabinet drawer, closing it with a firm hand. "Why don't you call that doc while I talk to Simon?"  
  
"Simon's in a meeting, remember? All morning," Blair told him, pointing to the dark office windows.  
  
Jim casually reached up to his own earlobe and tugged, nodding purposefully toward the door just as the police captain in question entered.   
  
"Ellison, Sandburg," Simon greeted them with a professionalism that belayed any hint they three of them had stayed together recently. "A word?"  
  
"Sandburg's got to make a phone call first, sir." Jim gave Blair a 'go do it' glare as he followed Simon into the office.  
  
With a sigh, Blair reached for Jim's desk phone and dug his wallet out. He found the card. The print was small. "Jeeze, give us optically challenged a break," Blair muttered while fumbling for his glasses he'd just tucked away in his shirt pocket. "Pay the extra buck for larger font."  
  
Just as Blair's call had gone through, a pair of plainclothes detectives burst through the door, each dragging a squirming prisoner. The two prisoners screamed obscenities at each other. Blair was reminded of two male, enraged pit bulls in a small cage. The accusations being tossed back and forth involved one of their girlfriends, or was it the fact both of them thought she was exclusive?  
  
Blair tuned out the profanity and plugged his free ear. Maybe he should hang up and call from the lunch room. Before he could follow through, a woman answered. Blair couldn't hear her over the shouting.  
  
"Hey! I'm on the phone here!" Blair yelled at the nearest prisoner, then stopped to assess the situation. Whoa, check out the biker outfit. Blair flashed an apologetic smile.   
  
Too late, the three hundred pound Hell's Angel threw off his captor's hold, cursing the air blue. "Now I've got hippies ordering me around?" he hollered.  
  
"Sit down!" the exasperated detective shouted.  
  
Both bikers were shouting, as were the arresting detectives were shouting. Simon and Jim emerged from the side office; their loud inquiries adding to the verbal melee.   
  
The scene got ugly fast.   
  
Biker one, the same that called Blair a hippie, pulled a short and wicked looking knife from his huge belt buckle. Biker two stood too close. Before anyone could move to stop him, Biker one slashed.  
  
Blood.   
  
Blair's hand lost the phone. It clattered to the floor.   
  
Jim moved forward, fast and deadly. The knife wielding biker still slashed air. The arresting detectives managed to pull the injured biker back, out of the way.   
  
Blair's attention focused on the blood flowing from the wound. The cut was deep. Starting at the base of the bikers pectoral muscle, then up and out, traveling at an angle off his shoulder. Dark and red, the blood spurted as if under low pressure, staining his grey sleeveless t-shirt.  
  
"Watch it!" Jim shouted. "Sandburg!"  
  
Blair turned to see the knife coming his way, held by the grease-stained hand, attached to the dirty forearm and followed by the murderous face of the biker. It was like watching a drama on TV, one of those wide screen jobs.   
  
Here it comes. This is what happens to people that kill.   
  
They get killed.  
  
Eye for an eye.  
  
"Sandburg!" Jim's fury was deafening. Leaping over his own desk, Jim caught the knife hand with inches to spare from Blair's throat. Jim's tackle threw the heavy man sideways. Both crashed into the drywall, leaving a sizeable dent that stunned the prisoner. The knife dropped. Jim ended the one man uprising with a powerhouse punch to the man's jaw.   
  
The biker crumpled and lay still.   
  
Leaning back, Jim looked up at his roommate, his face dark with anger. Jim was mad... and it was directed at him.   
  
"What the HELL were you thinking?" Jim demanded.  
  
"I..." Blair found himself pulled backwards by both shoulders, gently repositioned. He blinked in surprised, his view blocked by Simon's broad back.  
  
"Jim," Simon ordered in an uncharacteristically soft tone. "Calm down. Everyone... just calm down. Anderson, get a medic in here. In fact tell them to send up two teams. Jim, you're bleeding."  
  
"No." Blair tried to squeeze around, but found the space too tight. Simon easily blocked him. "Simon, let me –"  
  
"Sandburg, stay." Simon turned, giving the smaller man his full attention. "It's not serious. He'll need some stitches. That's all. Give Jim some space right now, okay?"  
  
Blair closed his eyes and gave in.   
  
No, it was not okay.  
  
"Chief, it's only a couple of stitches," Jim grumbled. "Give it a rest, would you?"  
  
Thirteen stitches. And a damaged tendon.   
  
Blair's lame attempt to apologize died on the vine. Jim didn't want it anyway. Blair snapped his mouth shut and took a step back. They'd just finished dinner. Standing from the table, Jim picked up his plate with his healthy right hand and carried it to the counter.   
  
Yeah, okay. Blair knew he was hovering. Damn it, he knew Jim wasn't a total invalid, but Blair couldn't help it. "It's my fault, man."  
  
Turning to lean against the counter, Jim crossed his arms, supporting his bandaged and splinted hand on top of his right arm. "It's not your fault the guy had a knife. It's not your fault the detectives didn't properly search him, or cuff him. It's not your fault I got cut, okay? What I do want to know is what happened to that 'Sandburg-self-preservation' I'm used to seeing. What was with that statue-in-the-park act?"  
  
"Let me do the dishes, okay? You have to keep that bandage dry tonight." Blair gathered the rest of the dirty dishes and the stir-fry pot that prepared dinner. "You think we should save these leftovers? Might taste good."  
  
Jim sighed, dropping his arms with surrender. "Not the eggplant… never tastes good reheated."  
  
Blair nodded. "Yeah, I'll pick that out and toss it."  
  
"Hey." Jim stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Did you ever make that call?"  
  
Not looking up, Blair shook his head. "Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow."  
  
The loft was empty. Jim had walked down to the waterfront for a morning paper. Snagging the cordless, Blair made the call from his bedroom, praying Jim wasn't listening.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Blair wet his lips.   
  
Okay, he could do this.  
  
"Tristan?"  
  
"Blair?"  
  
"Yeah, I-I need..."  
  
"Your Mom's not here right now."  
  
"No, I needed to talk to you." Blair dropped his forehead to his palm, his elbow on the bedside desk. "You said I could call you at this number."  
  
"Yes, and I meant that. What's wrong?"  
  
Blair took a deep breath, glad this conversation wasn't face to face as his eyes filled. "It's just h-harder than I thought. I heard you talk about a procedure to make a person... sorta forget? Were you serious?"  
  
"It's only been a few days," Tristan said softly.  
  
"Yeah, but I'm screwing up. Now Jim got hurt."  
  
"Jim's hurt? How bad. What happened? Tell me everything."  
  
Blair sat on the edge of the futon. With luck, Jim would be gone a while. The walk for the paper often involved chatting with the old men that sat at the corner coffee shop. One was a retired Seattle cop who Jim liked. Sometimes the chat would turn into half an hour of sitting and drinking coffee with them. If he was lucky, the old man was there.  
  
"Well, there was this fight in the bullpen yesterday…"  
  
Jim slammed the phone down. He refused to give up. Dialing still another number, the fourth one in the last hour, he waited for the call to connect.   
  
What was her name? Maggie?  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, this is Jim Ellison. I'm looking for Blair Sandburg."  
  
"Oh, hi, Jim," the woman said cheerfully. "Blair's not around. I'm not really expecting him..."  
  
Jim drummed the top of his desk. It was late afternoon and most of the day shift had already left the bullpen. Simon was still in his office. Offering a hurried thanks, Jim hung up and left his desk chair.   
  
Maybe Blair told Simon where he was going.  
  
"Enter." Simon said in response to Jim's knock. Looking ready to call it a day himself, Simon looked up. "Yeah, Jim?"  
  
"Did Sandburg tell you anything? Anything at all?" Jim dropped into an empty chair with a frown.   
  
"Jim, give the kid a break. So he didn't come home last night. He's had a shitty couple of days and he decided to get away. Not everything has to be the beginning to an Ellery Queen novel."  
  
Jim felt his eyebrows climb. "Ellery Queen?"  
  
"Yeah," Simon said with a look of challenge. "You got a problem with me reading Ellery Queen?"  
  
"No, not at all." Jim sighed, giving both temples a fingertip massage. A dull headache had occupied his skull all afternoon. "I can't help but think something's squirrelly. Sandburg doesn't disappear without telling me."  
  
Simon continued to shuffle paperwork around, as if sorting it into recognizable piles for the morning. "I thought you said he did tell you."  
  
"A note, he left a brief note," Jim said. "That's not the same thing. He wrote he was taking a break and would be staying with some friends. Not to worry."  
  
"His handwriting?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So the only part I'm fuzzy on is why you insist on worrying."  
  
"I've called everyone I can think of. I'm not finding him." Jim shifted in his chair. "Something's wrong, Simon, I can feel it."  
  
That got the other man's attention. He paused in paper sorting. "Is this a sentinel thing?"  
  
Shrugging, Jim dropped his hands to his lap. He worried the bandage on his injured hand. "It's a roommate thing. Something's wrong. That knife fight in the bullpen messed with his head."  
  
Simon's answer was cut off by a cell phone ring. Instantly following the sound to his own jacket that currently hung on his desk chair, Jim bolted out of his seat. "Sandburg."  
  
With a sigh of relief, Simon clicked off his desk light and rose. "Good, I'm going home."  
  
Jim pulled out his phone, awkwardly flipping it open and trying to punch the green key. The bandage made even everyday tasks hard. "Ellison."  
  
"James Ellison?"   
  
The voice was male, established and cultured, but not the one he wanted to hear.  
  
"That's right," Jim answered while his headache matured.  
  
"I'm Doctor Tapas. Your number was given to me by Tristan Cahill."  
  
Not good news. Jim didn't bother to reply. He knew there would be more and he wasn't disappointed.  
  
"Tristan is with his son right now, but he asked me to call you."  
  
Covert ops training kicked in. Confirm nothing. Give nothing away. Learn as much as possible. Jim offered a sound of encouragement, a cross between a hum and a grunt.  
  
The man chuckled. "I understand your reluctance. In fact, let me have you talk to Tristan, he just came in."  
  
Jim knew that; well, he knew someone had walked in to the room this man was in. He also heard other people walking nearby with rubber soled shoes on heavily waxed floors. He heard beeps and chirps. He heard several different TV channels being played in different locations.   
  
The sound he wanted to hear the most was not there; Blair's voice.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
"Tristan, where are you?" Jim's injured hand ached and he forced himself to relax his strangle hold on the phone.  
  
"We're in a private clinic on Mercer Island, that city in the middle of Lake Washington?"  
  
"I know the place," Jim said. "Where's Blair?"  
  
"With me."   
  
Jim's hearing was so focused he heard Tristan pass a hand through his own hair. Skin scraping hair follicles, fingernails and cuticles catching knots and breaking them free.  
  
"Jim, I can't go over this on the phone. Can you come down?"  
  
"Is he okay?" Jim demanded.  
  
"He's fine. But he needs you here when he wakes up. Can you come?"  
  
Simon was standing in his office doorway, pinning Jim with a look that told Jim he wouldn't be making the sixty minute drive alone. "Give me an address."  
  
Jim swore. He wanted to break something. He and Simon had arrived at the Mercer Island clinic. The place smelled of money. He suspected doctors here performed non-life threatening operations for the rich and pampered. The staff looked like they belonged on a modeling runway. Jim couldn't afford half the damn furniture in the waiting room in which he and Simon had been sequestered. All this show and no sign of Blair.  
  
"You want me to watch a video?" Jim said in his best Ranger voice. He narrowed his eyes at the doctor, pleased to see the man pale.   
  
The doctor swallowed, looking extremely thankful when Tristan captured Jim's attention. "Blair made this video for you to view. The least you can do is watch it. Then you can see him."  
  
Tristan looked tired and stressed, but not grief-stricken. When he and Simon had arrived, they'd been assured Blair was fine. Jim believed them, to a point. During the drive down, Simon had shared – with horrifying detail –the time Jim had been kidnapped and how Naomi and Tristan had drugged Blair's dinner to perform a minor operation on him. Jim was not about to trust any 'spook' with his partner again. No matter how they were related.  
  
"Play it," Jim demanded.  
  
Ignoring the doctor's hand gesture to sit, Jim watched a forty-plus TV screen glow to life revealing Blair sitting on a chair in a bare walled room. The lighting was artificial. Dressed in the same clothes Jim had last seen him in, Blair appeared nervous.   
  
"Ah, Jim," TV Blair said, pulling on his earlobe. Jim noticed the missing hoops. "God, this is totally weird, man. But… okay, here goes. I'm here to… it's like this… Shit." Blair looked off camera a second. "No, it's okay. Just give me a second."  
  
Jim sank down into the plush chair, watching, waiting for 'Recorded Blair' to pull thoughts together. When was this taken? Yesterday? This morning?  
  
"Okay," Blair started again, leaning forward toward the unseen camera. The effect was so real that Jim leaned forward in response. "Jim. I know you're going to freak. I know this is not something you'd approve of. Just hear me out. That fight in the bull pen made me see how important it is that I… stay focused, ya know? And I didn't. I screwed up. I know what you're gonna say; that it takes time."  
  
Blair sat back, his Adam's apple jiggling as he swallowed. Jim watched him swipe his palms on his frayed jeans. "I just can't risk it. I know you, man. You're like… the kind of guy to jump back on the horse. And that's cool, I respect it. I do. But what if something happens while I'm 'taking my time'? I'm not there to watch your back? I just can't take the chance." Blair offered a tired smile. "Really, Jim. No one made me do this." Blair nodded. "Okay, that's it."  
  
An off-camera voice sounded unsure. Blair shrugged. "Believe me. He'll understand."   
  
The screen went snowfield white, then the power to the TV was cut.  
  
Jim didn't know where he found the strength to stand. The unknown terrified him. The doctor, a thin man with heavy eyebrows looked ready and willing to answer any question asked, as if all was well in Jim's world. Ignoring the medical man, Jim turned to Tristan. "What the hell did your ghouls do to him?"  
  
The doctor's indignant blusters didn't even register.   
  
Tristan met his gaze coolly. "Jim, he called me. I didn't initiate this."  
  
"What was the procedure, Tristan," Jim asked again.  
  
"It's non-intrusive. A chemical is introduced to a part of the brain through a very small hole in the skull." Tristan held up his hand, showing Jim with his thumb and forefinger how small the hole was.   
  
A hole – they drilled a hole…  
  
Simon groaned. "Oh my God," he whispered, dropping his face into both open hands.  
  
"It erases memory. We've learned how to target the area that stores short term memory." He nodded his head toward the other man. "Doctor Tapas will explain."  
  
Simon held up a hand. He'd come to stand at Jim's shoulder during the explanation and Jim was thankful for the support. "Just a second, please. Was this the same operation you casually spoke of over breakfast in Aberdeen?"  
  
Tristan nodded. "It was."  
  
"That's how Blair heard it then." Simon muttered, obviously unhappy as he shook his head from side to side. "Shit, Jim… I had no idea."  
  
Jim's mind still played the comment 'hole in the skull' over and over in his head, like a skipping record. "How experimental is this operation?" His voice sounded alien even to himself.   
  
Tapas took the question as in invitation to join in. "We've had very good results with this latest drug. Nothing like the earlier side effects found. Of course, Mr. Sandburg was fully informed of all the research. I must say he was very intelligent for someone so young. His interest –"  
  
Jim cut him off. "Where's Naomi?" he demanded, his voice raising a few decibels.  
  
A flicker of emotion crossed Tristan's face and was gone. "She's not available. She doesn't know about this, Jim."  
  
"You didn't tell her?" That seemed impossible. "Why?"  
  
"She's not available," Tristan repeated firmly and Jim recognized official stonewalling. "Something's come up. I'm not going to be in contact with her for another few days."  
  
"We just got her back and you've sent her off on assignment?" Simon demanded. "Incredible!"  
  
"I didn't send her. She volunteered," Tristan corrected calmly. "National security."  
  
"Riiight." Jim shoved past the man, heading for the door. "Enough of this. Where's Sandburg?"  
  
"Ellison," Tristan said, snagging Jim's forearm as he passed by. "There's more you need to know."  
  
Jim froze. A tiny muscle under his right eye erupted with seizer-like movement. He clenched his right hand into a fist. "What," he whispered in a deadly voice. "What else?"  
  
Tapas answered, showing the sense to keep out of Jim's swinging range. "He'll be waking up soon, two to three hours. He'll be confused, maybe even scared –"  
  
"You think?" Jim shot back.  
  
"He wanted this," Tristan said forcefully.  
  
Jim pulled his arm free, turning to point a finger under Tristan's nose. "He had no idea what he wanted! He's rebounding from some pretty heavy shit! He should have had counseling – not a Black and Decker to the skull!"  
  
"Jim," Simon interrupted loudly enough to register. The hand on Jim's shoulder seemed to dissipate some of the blackness.   
  
Jim turned to his friend and boss, needing not to see Tristan. He felt his control being shredded. It had been a long time since he'd felt this level of rage. "Simon… they put a hole in his head," Jim whispered.  
  
Simon stood close, offering support, and Jim focused on the other man's calm, drawing it in and letting it eradicate is own desire to mutilate and maim.   
  
God, he'd been hanging around Blair too long.  
  
"Committing an assault is not going to help Blair," Simon whispered back.  
  
Blair lay still, curled on his side. Someone had been generous with blankets. The room was similar to a five-star hotel. No IV's or machines tethered him down. Still, in Jim's eyes, he looked sickly.  
  
Tapas held a narrow portfolio-style notebook made from expensive leather. His pen was gold and he drew it from his pale blue doctor smock and absentmindedly clicked it as he read. "Might be fewer than two hours. I see the nurses have recorded signs of waking."  
  
Tristan seemed to take charge. "Okay, then. Let's clear out and let Jim handle it."  
  
"Why?" Jim stood by the top of Blair's bed. He wasn't saying he wanted to leave, just why everyone else needed to.   
  
"Previous research has shown the patient does best when his family –" Tapas seemed to realize his blunder as he looked guiltily at Tristan. "-er… when someone well known to the patient is in the room."  
  
"I thought Naomi would be available," Tristan added. "She's not. You're the next best thing."  
  
Simon, Tristan and the doctor moved toward the door. Tapas paused, the last to leave. "When he seems calm, tell the nurse. Normally, we record this. But seeing the patient is related to Tristan…"  
  
Yeah, whatever. Jim dismissed him with an ill concealed grimace as he sat on an overstuffed moss colored chair. The room's indirect lighting was soothing to his senses. Any other time Jim would be relaxed in such a well designed room.   
  
Blair sniffled. The mass of wavy hair moved a fraction, revealing more face, jaw dark with stubble. Blair hadn't shaved that morning.  
  
"Chief, you've done some stupid things before, but…" Jim let the comment go unfinished. The doctor said he'd likely be affected by the drugs when he woke; anything from mildly scared to terrified. Jim didn't need to add fuel to the fire.  
  
Damn it. Blair let these people put chemicals directly into his brain.  
  
Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, when blue eyes appeared from under pale lids, Jim had a smile in place. He'd meditated, like Blair had taught him, and actually found a small amount of comfort from it.  
  
"Hey."   
  
Blair's eyes widened.   
  
"Easy, partner." Jim leaned forward, moving slowly. He laid his hand lightly on Blair's blanketed shoulder. "You're fine. Everyone is fine," Jim said. "How do you feel?"  
  
Sinking deeper into the pillow, Blair tried to talk, his voice rough. "Wha…"  
  
Jim pondered how to reply. "I'm still catching up here, Sandburg. You left yesterday, early. I got a call from Tristan to come and pick you up. What's the last thing you remember?"  
  
Blair was trembling now, full body vibrations that shook the bedding. A hand snaked out from the blanket and Jim caught it.   
  
"J-jim."  
  
"Blair, everything's okay," Jim repeated. "Now, answer my questions, Van Winkle. How do you feel?"  
  
Not releasing his hold, Blair's gaze surveyed the room. "Head h-hurts a l-l-little."  
  
Jim didn't like the stuttering. This wasn't Blair's way. God, what if the drugs…  
  
No, he wasn't going to speculate.   
  
"I'm going to raise the bed." Jim reached for the control box clipped to the corner of the mattress. "How about a little water?"  
  
Blair weakly groaned, but accepted the water. Worried about the possibility of having it return, Jim kept the drink short. "I'll give you more in a while," he explained, setting the tumbler back on the nightstand.   
  
Blair closed his eyes, giving Jim a chance to really take in his friend's appearance. Sentinel vision couldn't find the hole, too much hair. Blair's cheek was creased. He was bathed, however, and appeared cared for. The temperature of the room was warmer than Jim normally liked, yet Blair looked cold.  
  
"Tell me the last thing you remember." Jim kept his tone light, even though a part of him wanted to shake the younger man by the shoulders until his teeth fell out.  
  
"Ah… search warrant for the… B-blake case." Blair wet his lips as he looked down with a puzzled expression. "We were eating at Mr. Tube Steak? J-jim? Why am I…?" His voice shook, eyes filled and a tear dived down his cheek landing in the rough stubble.   
  
Jim switched to sit on the edge of the bed. "It's okay. It's just a normal reaction. It'll go away in a minute."  
  
"W-what happened?" Both eyes were dropping tears now. "S-shit, I'm f-freaking out, m-man."  
  
"Sandburg," Jim raised his voice, he leaned over Blair's legs to stay in his partner's line of vision, "I want you to listen to me, okay? Everything is going to work out. You've got some medicines throwing you for a little loop, that's all."  
  
Blair looked hopeful. "Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." Jim squeezed the ice cold hands. "I promise."  
  
After Jim was sure Blair had settled down, he told the nurse. Tapas entered alone, his presence non-threatening. Jim felt a stirring of appreciation for the man. The guy was good. He gently examined Blair while reassuring the patient that everything was fine. Next to enter was Tristan. Blair seemed surprised to see him, even asked about the older man's arm. Jim and Tristan shared a look. Blair didn't remember. Tristan had been shot long before their last adventure, before his mother went missing. Their trip to the rainforest was gone, erased like a computer disk.  
  
Simon was the last to enter the room. Blair started to become agitated.   
  
"What's happening? Why is everyone here?" Blair asked. "Where's Naomi?"  
  
Tristan held out a legal sized white envelope. "She's working, Blair. She'd be here if she could. I want you to read this."  
  
"What is it?" Blair accepted the envelope, turning it over to read. "This is my handwriting."  
  
"That's right." Tristan nodded. "You wrote it yesterday."  
  
Blair was already pulling out the paper, he read it quickly. Then rubbing his forehead, he read it again. Jim stood near the top of the bed, catching a few lines and able to decipher parts of Blair's scrawl; something about 'garbage truck'.  
  
Blair seemed to realize Jim's presence; he slapped the letter face down on his blanketed knees. "Jim, I need to talk to Tristan."   
  
"Okay."  
  
Blair frowned. "Alone, man. You mind?"  
  
Yeah, he minded. But he followed Simon and Tapas into the 'Ethan Allen' decorated hallway. Voices were easily picked up through the heavy wooden door, if the person listening from the hall was a Sentinel.  
  
"Naomi would have come if she'd known, son," Tristan was saying. "I know you –"  
  
"Wait a second," Blair's voice cut him off. "Jim, dial it down. Play fair, okay?"  
  
Shit. Jim let his hearing return to a normal setting. He caught Simon smirking knowingly at him.  
  
"Got shut out?" Simon asked.  
  
"Yeah," Jim admitted. He saw Tapas talking to a nurse behind a nearby counter. "I'm really hating this, Simon. Why would Blair allow his brain to be doused with chemicals?"  
  
"You're asking me?" Simon said half-jokingly. "Like I've got hidden insight on the kid's motivations? I'm just glad he's awake and acting normal."  
  
"Somewhat normal." Jim looked at the door.  
  
"Ah ha, James. Be good," Simon warned.  
  
"Right."   
  
A few minutes later the door opened and both Tristan and Blair, dressed in a white robe that reached the floor, exited the room.   
  
"What are you doing up?" Jim asked.  
  
"I'm fine." Blair waved his hand. "Tristan says it's normal to be up and walking."  
  
Tapas joined them. "That's right. It's a very good sign in fact. Any problems? Dizziness… vision?"  
  
"Nope," Blair answered, managing a pathetic smile. "Feel great. Hey, Jim, why don't you and Simon head on back to Cascade? Thanks for driving down and all. I'll catch a ride later. I need to do some reading before I leave. I'll meet up with you at the loft, okay?"  
  
Simon answered for both of them. "We'll wait, Sandburg. You do your reading. We'll all go back together."  
  
Blair's eyes widened. "Oh… ah, okay. Thanks."  
  
Jim and Simon waited in the dining area, guests of Tapas. The food was like everything else about the place, beyond indulgent. Still, Jim had picked at the meal, an Italian chicken breast served over wild rice. Simon ate his London broil and kept Jim distracted.   
  
Two hours later a very different Blair Sandburg emerged; showered, shaved and dressed in street clothes again. Tristan walked at his side. "Sorry that took so long, guys. I'm ready." He turned to his father, offering his hand. "Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome." Tristan shook. "Make sure you come back for the follow ups. You've got my cell number. Call if you need anything. I'll brief Naomi when she checks in."  
  
"Okay," Blair said. He looked at Jim. "Ready?"  
  
They left. Blair opened the back door of Simon's car and got in without a word, sitting calmly and gazing out the window into the night as they crossed the floating bridge to catch the freeway that would take them north. The silence was strained, at least for Jim.  
  
Simon made small talk. Jim answered out of courtesy. After all, Simon's plans for Friday evening had probably not involved driving Jim around. When they arrived home, Blair spent several minutes thanking Simon before heading up to the loft.   
  
The street was dark. Jim could smell the salty mix of water from the harbor a few blocks below the hill. Colette's and the other shops on the block were locked up for the night.   
  
Jim wearily ran a palm down his face. "Thank you, Simon."  
  
"You're welcome." Simon drew a cigar out of his leather case. "What are you going to do?"  
  
A good question. "I'm not sure. This is Blair's call. He started down this path… as stupid and asinine as it is."  
  
Simon hid a grin behind his hands as he lit up, taking a few seconds to get his cigar tip glowing to his satisfaction. He watched the silhouette from a low flying sea bird pass by to land in an adjacent neighborhood park. "They wouldn't have released him unless they were sure he was okay."  
  
"I know. But we're still talking experimental shit." Jim crossed his arms. "It's not like Sandburg to take the quick and easy route."  
  
"You watched that video, he had his reasons." Simon clapped Jim's shoulder. "Go on up, relax. I'll see you Monday. You're not on rotation this weekend, so take some time and just talk."  
  
"Yeah." Jim had to agree with the man's logic. "Thanks again, Simon."  
  
Upstairs in the loft, he half expected Blair to be hiding in his room. Instead his roommate was watching the news. He flicked it off when Jim walked in.  
  
"You're pissed," Blair stated frankly.  
  
Jim hung up his jacket, taking the time to organize his feelings. "Yeah, I'm pissed."  
  
"I didn't talk to you about this, did I?"  
  
Turning back to his friend, Jim rubbed his brow. Did he really want to have this conversation right now? Blair looked rested and ready to go all night. Jim felt like fifty miles of bad road. "Sandburg, I don't know what to do here. You went through a… risky procedure for a stupid reason. What if someone blurts it out? Huh? Then what? You had some doc drilling in your head for nothing."  
  
Blair chewed his lower lip in thought before answering. "I kinda have a clue what must have happened. Not the actual facts, man. But I did leave a very clear reason for myself. I'm okay, even if someone says something; the actual event is gone from my memory. I'm not going to freeze or anything. That's all that counts."  
  
"Sandburg, that's crap and you know it," Jim responded, giving in to his emotions and ignoring his brain. "You create problems that don't exist!"  
  
"My note said you'd say something like that, man." Blair stood up, waving both hands outward in anger.  
  
"It's true! Give me that note and I'll break it down for you."  
  
"Forget it! You're not reading that. It's private," Blair said, his voice raising. He took a breath and brought his volume back to normal range. "Jim, listen to me. I'm sorry, okay? You weren't supposed to drive down."  
  
"You made a video -"  
  
"-To show you later, man, after I returned. The plan was for Naomi to be there, but –"  
  
Jim cut him off. "Forget the damn trip. I'm not upset about a stupid drive, okay? I am upset about what you did."   
  
Blair's eyes narrowed. He stood straight, achieving an 'in your face' stance that his height normally didn't allow. Jim felt the temperature of the loft plummet from the younger man's hard gaze.   
  
"Deal with it, Ellison," Blair whispered. "It's done. I'm not a kid. I made a decision and it stands. Good night." With a sharp turn on his heel, he crossed the loft and disappeared into his room.  
  
Jim fought the desire to follow.   
  
Shit.   
  
Dropping onto the smaller sofa, Jim pressed both heels of his hand into his eye sockets. His head ached.   
  
The following Monday found Jim lifting and slipping under the yellow 'crime scene' tape. He'd gotten the call to respond to a restaurant right after lunch. Homicide detectives were on scene, but wanted someone from Major Crime to take a look.   
  
"Ellison, back here," a short woman with broad shoulders called out.   
  
Though an open pass-through window, Jim could see several crime scene technicians working in the back kitchen. Entering through a swinging door, he found the murder scene.   
  
"Thanks for coming."   
  
Jim recognized the woman as Edwina Stone. He couldn't recall her partner's full name, but the last name was Gleason. "No problem, Eddie, what's up?"  
  
The victim lay flat on his back next to a long food preparation table. A young looking man, Asian in features, he sported a large butcher knife which stuck out of his sternum. The left side of his forehead was flattened as well. It was going to be a toss up as to which attack actually killed him.  
  
"Recognize him?" Gleason asked. He stood next to the body, unwrapping a chocolate kiss before popping it into his mouth and chewing. The wrapper was tucked into his jacket pocket.   
  
Jim looked again at the victim. "Yeah, looks like Dicky's little brother. Don't remember his name."  
  
"Bernard Yu," Eddie Stone said. "Aren't you guys working a case with Richard Yu?"  
  
"Yeah, we are." Jim had just spent the morning catching up on the open files that had come in while he and Blair had been away. "Regular racketeering stuff, some extortion and illegal gambling on the side."  
  
"Any idea who'd 'off' the brother?" Gleason asked. He was working on another chocolate. "We thought he was legit."  
  
"Just keep an eye on the morgue," Jim answered. "The killer's bound to turn up soon. Dicky's going to hit the roof when he finds out. They were close."  
  
"Speaking of…" Gleason made a point to look behind Jim. "Where's your trained monkey?"  
  
Jim ignored the man, turning instead to Eddie. "You want to pass this to Major Crime?"  
  
She smiled. "God, I was hoping you'd offer. We're getting nailed in homicide. Can I write up what we have so far and CC a copy to you?"  
  
Jim nodded. "Sure, I'll look around some. I'm just getting back from a short vacation and my in-box isn't too bad right now."  
  
She beamed up at Jim. "That's the best offer I've had all year."  
  
Jim glanced at Gleason. "I'll bet."  
  
Jim entered Simon's office. It was after three and he'd finished examining the restaurant. He'd found a few clues, but catching the killer was going to involve good old-fashioned police work.  
  
"Hear we got a new case."   
  
The sarcasm was thick and Jim realized he'd overstepped his bounds a little. "Sorry, sir. Didn't think to call you first. Stone and Gleason were up to their collective necks in open cases. This one does tie-in with Brown and Rafe's case."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Simon said with a small sigh. "Just sometimes I like to feel I'm the boss around here. Not just a lackey for the Police Chief."  
  
"New committee?" Jim guessed.  
  
"Don't even get me started, Detective." Simon pushed back from his desk and tilted his chair as he studied Jim. "There are days the pay does not make up for the crap that comes with the captain bars. So…talk."  
  
Jim opened his notebook. "Not much yet, some evidence at the scene. We've got human hair, possible skin under the vic's fingernails, a shitload of prints, but none on the knife handle. The cook tells us one of his cast iron pans is missing, probably the other weapon. The place is owned by a woman currently living in California. It's just an investment for her. A local manager runs it. We're checking; don't think they're connected to organized crime. The place serves dinner only, the employees found the vic when they arrived for work."  
  
"Bernard Yu, right?" Simon asked.  
  
"Right." Jim closed the notebook and crossed both arms. "I've called Dicky's normal haunts, no go. His attorney's aware of the death and promised to call me if she hears from him."  
  
Simon pursed his lips, his gaze switching to the ceiling. "Okay, you take the primary on this, but work with Brown and Rafe. I'll have them keep you in the loop with their investigation. Who knows, they might hear or see something that helps. We'll work it for a few days and see what happens. If we need to, we'll steal a few bodies from the organized crime division; God knows they owe us some favors."  
  
"Very good, Simon." Jim turned toward the door.  
  
"Wait, Jim. How's Sandburg?"  
  
Jim shrugged one shoulder. "He's fine. Spent the last two days getting ready for classes and being pissed off at me."  
  
"Why, what did you do?" Simon was standing now, carrying his empty coffee cup toward his coffee pot. "Want some?"  
  
Jim had smelled the coffee when he'd entered. It had to be at least three hours old. "I'll pass, thanks anyway. And I didn't do anything. I'm just not going to pretend everything's 'hunky-dory'"  
  
"I see." Simon poured his coffee. "So what you're saying is you walked around the loft for two days looking like a constipated drill sergeant and he refused to admit he'd done anything wrong."  
  
Jim sniffed. "You got half of that right."  
  
Chuckling to himself, Simon waved toward the closed door. "Get back to work. Keep me informed, okay? Is Sandburg coming in?"  
  
"I think so," Jim tossed back as he left.  
  
"Hey, Jim." Blair set his pack down on the floor next to Jim's desk and dropped into the empty chair.   
  
"Hey." Jim's answer was short. "Don't get comfortable. We're going back out."   
  
Wonderful. Blair leaned down and snagged his pack again. It felt heavier all of a sudden, as if someone had managed to slip bricks in. "Where?"  
  
"New case," Jim answered. He stood and lifted his jacket off the back of his chair with a crooked finger while frowning at Blair. "You look like shit. You okay?"  
  
"Tired." Blair managed a smile. "Do you think we'll be working late?"  
  
"Nah, shouldn't be." Jim strode toward the door with purpose, causing Blair to pick up his own pace. He passed over a file as they walked. "Body found in the kitchen at Paolio's, the baby brother of one Richard Yu from China Town. Suspected of running organized crime."  
  
Blair studied the file's contents, not looking up as Jim pulled him out of the path of two approaching uniforms. He appreciated the gesture. Maybe Jim was thawing a little. He'd been acting pissed all weekend. Blair's thoughts returned to the information he held. The picture of the body wasn't as bad as some Blair had seen, but the knife was the stuff nightmares were made of. He scanned the bare facts of the case, easily deciphering Jim's hand notes.  
  
They were in the elevator when he finished. "You know, I think I've seen this Bernard guy around Rainier. What's he do?"  
  
"His brother's attorney said Bernard was into imports and exports," Jim answered. "Where did you see him?"  
  
"Maybe the anthropology museum?" Blair held up the picture. "Do we have any photos of him before half his skull got caved in?"  
  
"Not yet, we're working on it. Tell me what you saw."   
  
"Not much. I didn't talk to him. He was meeting someone. I was giving a talk on the Kitwancool Village - we have a very cool memorial totem pole that belonged there – and I remember looking over and seeing these two guys talking."  
  
"Why did the fact they were talking stick with you?" Jim asked.  
  
Blair bit the corner of his lip in thought. "I guess it was because the other guy was so scared looking."  
  
"What did he look like?"  
  
"White, dark hair, sorta short like yours. Heavy set. He was a few years older than me, I think. That's all I remember, man."  
  
They were soon driving south along the waterfront. Blair sank into the Expedition's seat cushions and closed his eyes. The first day back to school had been hell. A dull headache happily banged away at the back of his eyeballs. No matter what he'd tried, he couldn't shake it. On top of feeling crappy, he'd forgotten about a meeting just before lunch and got chewed out.   
  
Then there was that stupid business with the copy machine…  
  
Jim turned into a parking lot next to a four-story glass front building that smacked establishment and stock investments. They walked through the recessed entrance. The lobby wasn't manned with a receptionist so Jim scanned a large directory hanging on the wall.   
  
"Who we looking for?" Blair asked.  
  
"Richard Yu's attorney." Jim pointed. "Third floor."  
  
The attorney turned out to be a woman in her forties, wearing a dark blue suit with silver jewelry. Her black hair was fashionably styled, cut a few inches above her shoulders and curled in. She invited them into her inner office and handed Jim an envelope before sitting down behind an elegant bird's eye maple desk. After the formal introductions were over, she explained the envelope.  
  
"Richard's traveling. I've left several messages. I'm sure he'll check in soon. I'm also Bernard's counsel, so I've gathered some information and a few pictures like you requested." She sat, posed on the edge of her chair, radiating confidence.   
  
"I find it interesting, Ms. Thomas, that Richard doesn't carry a cell phone or pager," Jim said as he opened the envelope and pulled out the papers. Many were folded in half to fit inside. As Jim unfolded them, a photo slipped to the floor.  
  
Blair squatted down to pick it up. A pleasant looking man stared back at him. "He's the one, Jim."  
  
"Okay." Jim took the photo back.  
  
"He's which one?" she asked, turning to Blair.  
  
"Nothing, ma'am," Jim said. "So… you're telling me Richard doesn't have a cell phone?"  
  
"He does, Detective." She crossed her arms. "I've tried it. He must have turned it off. All the data is there. You can call yourself if you don't believe me." She stood up.   
  
"Thank you. One more question." Jim tilted his head. "Do you know if Bernard had any reason to be in that restaurant?"  
  
"I know Richard is a silent partner in a quite a few local businesses," she answered. "I'm not privileged to all that information, he has other counsel for that. Perhaps the restaurant was such a place?"  
  
"Do you know the names of his other attorneys?"   
  
She shook her head. "Sorry, no."  
  
The interview, such as it was, was over.  
  
They followed her out into the waiting area of her office. A water cooler, several chairs and wood file cabinets lined the wall. Hand panted, crude looking ink patterns on thick, handmade paper decorated the walls. Each one was carefully framed.  
  
"These are African, right?" Blair asked as he walked over to study one closely.  
  
"That's right. Zimbabwe, I traveled there a few years ago and bought them." She smiled at the framed art. "They're nothing special, but I enjoyed bringing part of my past back with me."  
  
Blair nodded, wishing he felt better. "Never got a chance to travel that way yet. I hope to visit every continent. Do you have family there?"  
  
She nodded. "Distant cousins."  
  
Back in the truck, Jim turned drove toward the loft. "What do you say we leave your car in the PD garage? I'll drop you off on my way in, then pick you up after your last class."  
  
"Man, I'm down with that plan." Blair stretched his legs out. "Although after today, I might not be welcome back at Rainier."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
Blair shrugged. "Just had a tough time getting back into the swing of things." He probed his face gently with his right hand. "At least I don't look like an extra in a Rocky Balboa movie anymore." He had just a few yellowish-green bruises on his face. It was totally weird not knowing how they got there. He noticed Jim's hands tightening on the steering wheel and changed the subject. "So… is it your night to cook?"  
  
"Jim?"   
  
Jim looked up from his dicing. He still had half a tomato to go. "What?"  
  
Emerging from his bedroom wearing baggy pajama bottoms and a dingy T-shirt two sizes too large and way overdue for the rag box, Blair set his wall calendar down on the table. "Who's Cindy?"  
  
"Cindy?" Jim continued to dice. "Cindy at the station? The fingerprint tech?"  
  
"I don't know. I've got a name on the calendar for tomorrow, next to the letter seven."  
  
"Maybe it's a date."  
  
"You'd think I'd remember that." Blair scratched his head. "Did I meet a Cindy in the last two weeks?" The tomato was a smidgen over ripe and hard to hold. Jim watched his bandage catch a stream of juice. "I don't know, Sandburg. If you did, you didn't share." He didn't intend to sound irritated, it just came out that way.  
  
"Sorry, man." Blair turned toward his room.  
  
Great, now he felt like a jerk. "Sandburg, wait."   
  
When Blair paused, Jim set the knife down. They had enough tomato anyway. Scooping the small mound onto a saucer, he dumped it into the pan of cooked pasta and garlic. "You probably would have told me if she was from work. Why don't you check with your friends at school? It must be someone from Rainier."  
  
Blair looked doubtful. "You're still pissed, huh?"  
  
Jim smiled. "I'll get over it, okay? You made your point the other night and I do respect your decision. Now, would you do me a favor here? The tomato juice is really starting to sting." Jim started stripping the gauze off.  
  
"Sure," Blair said eagerly as he dropped the calendar on the table. "Where's the bandages?"  
  
Jim snorted, taking a seat at the table. He had the old wrap off. His stitches looked fine. "In the bathroom, Einstein, where we've always kept them."  
  
"Right," Blair answered with a grin. "I knew that." He disappeared into the bathroom and Jim could hear cabinet doors opening and closing.  
  
When Blair returned with the Johnson and Johnson box of supplies, Jim watched his friend selected the necessary material to replace the bandage. Something wasn't' right. "Sandburg, you did remember where we keep the first aid box, right?"  
  
Tearing the paper off the sterile squares of white, Blair kept his head down. "Sure."  
  
"Uh huh." Jim held his hand steady.   
  
Blair did a good job. He covered the fresh cover with a figure-eight pattern of rolled gauze, then secured the tip with tape. "That's not too tight, is it?"  
  
"Nope, it's perfect." Jim stood and gathered up the old bandage to toss. "While dinner is cooking, I'm going to run the garbage down to the alley. You mind putting a new liner in the can?" Jim had the door under the sink open and the full sack of garage in hand. Tightening the draw string closure, he headed for the door.  
  
Blair went to the same cabinet and opened it.  
  
Jim sighed. The extra bags weren't kept under the sink. They were in the end cabinet next to the refrigerator. Blair should know that. The location hadn't changed since the day he had moved into the loft. When Jim returned from his trip to the alley, Blair was still opening cabinets.  
  
"Sandburg, we've got to talk."  
  
"What?"  
  
Jim pointed to the living room.   
  
"You want the liner replaced, remember?" Blair sounded angry. His heart rate was twice as fast as normal. "Shit!" He slammed the door under the range top and crossed his arms over his chest, his head down.  
  
Jim moved close. He laid a gentle hand on Blair's shoulder. "When did this start?"  
  
"Today, at Rainier," Blair mumbled, looking miserable.   
  
"What did you forget at Rainier?" Jim asked, gently moving Blair out of the kitchen and onto the sofa.   
  
"A meeting. But that wasn't my fault, really. But then I couldn't remember how to run the copier, Jim." Blair looked up, his eyes haunted. "I've been known to make that old machine stand up and dance. We've had it for a year."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"How can I tell?" Blair flung both hands in the air. "I can't remember."  
  
"We've got to call Tapas. This isn't good, Chief." Jim reached over and picked up the cordless phone at the end of the sofa. "Did he say there might be side affects?"  
  
Blair shook his head. "I don't think so. I read the post operation notes they gave me. Didn't see anything like this."  
  
"So far, everything you've forgotten seems to be before the procedure, right?" Jim pulled his own wallet out of his pocket and found the business card from the clinic. There was a twenty-four hour number listed in the corner.   
  
"I think so," Blair answered.  
  
Jim dialed the number and handed the phone over. "Make an appointment." Standing up, Jim headed back to finish dinner. Tomorrow he'd tell Simon he'd need some time off to accompany Blair back to the clinic. He had a few questions for Tapas.  
  
Blair woke the next morning without a headache. A small glimmer of hope took root. Maybe it was over. He still had the gaping hole in his memory of the two weeks in question, but that was okay. He had read his own letter and knew the operation had been necessary for Jim's safety. What scared the crap out of him was forgetting the odd details of his life.   
  
Heading for the shower, he saw Jim's jacket missing. Some mornings his roommate got up an hour early and worked out at a gym a few blocks away. By the time Blair had finished the shower, dressed and fixed his algae shake, Jim was walking into the loft.  
  
"Morning." Jim hung up his coat. He carried a small white bag and held it up for view. "Onion bagels were fresh this morning. I scored you one."  
  
"Thanks, man. Can you still drive me to Rainier?"  
  
"Sure, I just need to grab a shower." Jim walked toward the bathroom. "What time is your appointment?"  
  
"Three." Blair sniffed the bagel. It smelled fresh. "I'll just cancel my office hours. Wait, though… what about the investigation? Maybe I should drive myself."  
  
Stopping at the doorframe to the bathroom, Jim leveled him with a stern look. "I'm going. I want to hear what they have to say. I'll explain to Simon. I'll put in six solid hours before I pick you up. Okay?"  
  
"Sure." Blair took a big bite of bagel and set his empty glass in the sink, for washing later. He needed to gather his books for school. Jim had a knack of being able to shower and dress and still leave Blair standing at the gate when the starting gun for the morning went off. Blair learned to be ready.  
  
And Jim did work hard. He poured over the medical examiner's report first thing in the morning. Interviewed the manager of the restaurant, talked to the owner by phone, neither had a clue what the victim was doing inside their building. Jim skipped breaks, didn't eat lunch. His file was an inch thicker by the time he had to leave to pick up Blair.  
  
"Jim." Simon appeared suddenly at Jim's side as he went through his 'end of day' procedure, getting his desk in order. "Call me as soon as you guys get in, okay? I don't care what time it is."  
  
Jim closed the last desk drawer and stood, his jacket draped over one arm. "I will."  
  
"And, listen to me, don't do anything stupid. I don't want a call from the Mercer Island police that you assaulted a doctor."  
  
That brought Jim up short. Yeah, he was getting ready for a fight, a big fight, a showdown of fights. Jim forced his shoulders to relax. "Damn it, Simon. I'm watching this go from bad to nightmare."  
  
"I know. But keep this in mind; the doctor was doing his job. I may have issues with Tristan for his part… and definitely with Sandburg." Simon shook his head. "Just play nice at the clinic, got it?"  
  
Jim nodded. "Got it."  
  
Traffic was light and Jim reached the University, parked illegally in a wide turnaround and trotted toward the side entrance to Hargrove. The overhead trees were heavy with delicate leaves and fragrant blossoms. In a few weeks tiny white flower pedals would carpet the wide walkway. He entered the building and strode down the arched ceiling hallway toward his partner's office.   
  
It was empty.  
  
"Wonderful," Jim muttered as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Blair's cell number. He left Blair's office and headed back outside, his goal the bookstore, or the student lounge. Jim let the phone ring as he left the building behind and walked down the center mall. The university was huge and Jim was fast becoming irritated. He didn't have time for a game of 'find the anthropologist that doesn't wear a watch'; they still had a long drive to look forward to.   
  
Blair still wasn't answering. Jim changed direction. He was right in front of the library, he'd try that first. Extending his hearing in hopes of hearing his roommate's voice, Jim ended the call and tucked the phone away.  
  
Somewhere behind him, a cell phone stopped ringing.  
  
Jim turned, his eyes raking the campus in its spring greenery. No Blair. Jim hit the resend button and waited.   
  
There is was again. A phone started ringing. The sound was coming from the far end of the mall. Jim ended the call again.   
  
The distant ringing stopped.  
  
What the hell was going on? Jim jogged toward his Ford, passed it, crossed the circular turnaround and looked over a low concrete wall to a rose garden. He saw Blair below him. His friend was sitting on a bench, his feet drawn up and both arms circling his shins.   
  
Exasperated, Jim found the stairs leading to the garden and waited until he was standing directly in front of his roommate before speaking. "Are you having fun playing hide and seek?"  
  
Blair looked up.   
  
Jim immediately dropped the sarcasm upon seeing Blair's weary expression. He sat beside his friend. "What's wrong? Another headache?"  
  
Blair shook his head. "I'm fine." He lowered his feet to the ground.  
  
"Then why aren't you answering your cell? We have to hit the road, partner. You've got an appointment."   
  
Blair's backpack rested next to him on the bench, the top opened. Reaching inside, Blair pulled out a paper. It looked like a photo copy. He handed it to Jim, who read it quickly.  
  
"You're resigning? Why?"  
  
Blair looked sick. "Today I was answering questions after one of my lectures on social organization. You know, just basic anthropology. A student asked me to explain 'fictive kinship'." Blair paused to swallow. He rubbed his closed eyes with one hand.   
  
"What happened?" Jim had an idea.  
  
"I stood there like an idiot, man," Blair answered in a whisper. "I didn't know the answer." He turned bloodshot eyes on Jim. "I have to resign. I'm losing it."  
  
"Sandburg, you're not losing it. You don't even know what it is yet. That's why we have a doctor's appointment, remember?"  
  
If there was ever an example of a person that had already given up, Blair was it. "I told my dean I was seeing the doctor today…"  
  
"And?"  
  
"He refused to accept my resignation." Blair snorted. "I'm on a leave of absence."   
  
Jim stood. "Okay, then, enough 'pity party'." He slipped a hand under Blair's arm and lifted. "And get your ass in the Ford."  
  
Blair sat in the doctor's office with Jim at his side. The physical exam was complete. He's answered a billion questions, filled out pages and pages of food he had consumed, products he had used. His blood and urine had been sampled. Hell, they'd even taken some spinal fluid.  
  
That had hurt.  
  
Now it was nearly dinnertime and the doctor had brought them back to his office. Tapas studied the papers spread out on his desk, clucking quietly. Blair was ready to explode with impatience. "Well?"   
  
Tapas looked up. "I'm completely puzzled. You say you had a headache?"  
  
"Right." Blair shot Jim a brief look. He'd already explained this a dozen times. "Can you tell me if this is going to stop?"  
  
"I'm afraid not." Tapas looked genuinely remorseful.  
  
Blair was going to throw up.  
  
"Wait, doc." Jim held up a hand. "No… you can't tell us - or no, this is not going to stop?"  
  
Tapas leaned forward urgently. "I'm sorry, the first one. I don't know, Blair. I'm not sure how this is even happening. Theoretically, this is impossible. You see," he stood up and walked over to a wall chart depicting a human brain, "the portion of the brain that processes new memories is called the hippocampus." He pointed to the chart.  
  
Blair was instantly reminded of the TV commercial that started out with the famous 'this is your brain' and then showed a chicken egg. He felt as fragile as that egg.  
  
Tapas continued. "We target the hippocampus for this reason. No long term memories are stored there, they are moved – or transferred – from one region to another. In the past, people who've suffered damage to the hippocampus, either through head trauma or a stroke, have specific memory deficits. They lose recent memories, but more distant memories remain intact." Tapas pointed at Blair. "You're experiencing loss of long term memories, commonly believed to be stored in the anterior cingulated cortex. Now conventional wisdom, at least since the 1960s, has been that once a memory is "fixed" biochemically, it's permanent and cannot be erased."  
  
And this is your brain on drugs… any questions? Blair blinked stupidly at the doctor. What did all of this mean?  
  
Jim voiced his own thoughts. "So… bottom line, Doc. How do we stop it?"  
  
Tapas converted from a confident lecturer back to the frustrated medical man in a nano-second. "I don't know. It could be anything. This new drug is a biochemical blocker; it had none of the side effects we found with our earlier choice, propranolol, which interfered with the action of stress hormones in the brain. Somehow our new drug mutated… or became disrupted by protein synthesis inhibitors. Still, none of our previous test subjects showed this complication."  
  
"And just how many subjects were there?" Jim leaned forward, his voice hard.  
  
Tapas returned to his chair, as if he was looking for the largest physical barrier in the room to put between himself and Jim.  
  
"Human subjects?" Tapas asked with a nervous smile. "None."  
  
Blair groaned, dropping his face into his palm.   
  
"I'm still waiting for more detailed test results, but I believe we have two avenues to pursue," Tapas said as he sat, drumming long fingers over the stack of papers. "We could wait and see if this is a temporary condition. It might run out of steam, so to speak, and stop. Or I could fly you back to the east coast with me, to my main office and lab. We can run some tests, under a very controlled environment. If I can map the protein produced by the neurons that signal memory activation…"  
  
Blair couldn't help himself, his mind tuned Tapas out. He was so screwed. What had he been thinking? His own note had told him the first priority was to get back into shape as Jim's partner. Surely he had considered all the possibilities before leaping? He just didn't play a lab mouse and lay down on the operating table, that wasn't his way. Words like electrodes, MRI, memory array, cognitive abilities were thrown about and Blair tried to focus. Jim seemed to follow, even asking a few questions. Finally Tapas stopped and looked expectantly at Blair.  
  
Caught in his own world, Blair looked at Jim.   
  
Jim leaned towards him. "Do you want to think some more about this?"  
  
Blair managed a nod.   
  
They picked up tacos on the way home. Jim managed to get Blair to eat one. When they arrived back at the loft, Blair sat on the smaller sofa and looked out at the harbor lights. The answering machine light was dark. Jim knew Simon was sitting by his phone, waiting for a call. But Jim didn't feel up to it. Instead, he took the opposite sofa and stretched out.  
  
Blair lifted one corner of his mouth, but kept his focus on the view outside. "Jim, I know I screwed up. Royally, big time. It's okay, you can say it."  
  
"Let's wait for the rest of the tests results before we scuttle the ship, okay?" Jim joked half heartedly.  
  
Blair's attention left the view and fixed on Jim. "The last thing I intended was to be some stupid albatross around your neck. But if my memory goes, I'm not going to see that happening, am I?"  
  
"You're not listening to me, are you?"   
  
Blair frowned, sitting a little straighter. "Shit, man. What if… what if I even forget you, ohmygod! Jim! I could forget you're a Sentinel." He stood up suddenly. "I've got to talk to Simon!"  
  
"Calm down," Jim ordered, fruitlessly. Blair was already on the phone dialing. Jim moved fast, muscling the phone away before the call went through.  
  
"Jim! Give that back!"  
  
"Blair, listen to me; calm down." Jim kept his right elbow locked, palm against Blair's chest He held the phone up. "Let's sit back down and –"   
  
The phone picked that second to ring. Jim thumbed the button and brought it close. "Hello?"  
  
"Jim? You guys didn't call, so I thought I'd –"  
  
"Simon!" Blair hollered. "You got to come over, man! I've got to talk to you!"  
  
Shit, this was getting ridiculous. Jim shot his friend a look and let him go.   
  
"Jim, what's wrong? What's the kid yelling about?"  
  
"Everything's fine, sir." Jim took a few steps away, dropping his voice to a whisper. "He's just… leaping to the worst case scenario. We were just getting ready to talk. I'll call you, okay?" Jim hung up. Before he could turn around, it rang a second time.  
  
"Ellison!"  
  
"Ahh… hello?" The voice was feminine and elderly. "Is this the residence of Blair Sandburg?"  
  
For crying out loud. Was the entire city of Cascade going to call the loft? "One moment please." He handed it back to a relatively angry looking roommate.  
  
Blair took the phone, shooting Jim a poisonous look. But as Blair listened to the caller, he slapped his forehead and walked into his bedroom.   
  
Nothing left to do, Jim cleaned the kitchen. When Blair returned half an hour later, he slumped into a kitchen chair, dropping the phone onto the table with a clatter. "That was Cindy."   
  
"Cindy?" Jim wiped his hands on a towel.   
  
"You know, that note on my calendar? Next to the letter seven?" Blair scrubbed his face with both hands. "She's a professor that retired three years ago, she moved to Florida. We had plans to see each other tonight."  
  
Jim checked the clock. "So go, it's only half past."  
  
Blair shook his head, looking sad. "She's already gone, man. It was a short lay over at the airport. Shit, man. I totally forgot her."  
  
"But you remembered after talking to her? You remembered who she was then?"  
  
Blair nodded. "Yeah, for now." He rested his chin on a fist, looking up at Jim in despair. "But what about tomorrow?"  
  
The next morning Blair accompanied Jim to the station. He had woken up feeling better. No new discoveries of forgotten memories. They ate breakfast and treated themselves to an espresso at a local drive through. Jim had briefed Simon on the phone last night after Blair had gone to bed. At least Blair said he was going to bed. Sounds of paper rustling drifted up until past midnight, when Jim had fallen asleep.   
  
Walking into the bullpen side by side, they met Brown and Rafe getting ready to leave.  
  
"Ellison, we've got some info for you," Brown announced as he passed over a 'while you were out' pink slip. "Word on the street has it that Dicky is after one of his own men, could be his brother's killer."  
  
Jim read the note. It wasn't much, just a name, George, and a phone number with a local area code.   
  
"Number belongs to a cell phone. Rafe already tried to get an address on it, no luck." Brown gave a casual salute. "I'd keep trying, though. Who knows? We gotta run, dudes. Hey, Hairboy."   
  
"You going to call it?" Blair asked after the two detectives had gone.   
  
"Yeah, let's just check in with Simon first." Jim saw his boss was alone.   
  
"Good, you're both here." Simon made a waving 'close the door' motion after Blair entered, then continued once the door was shut. "Did Henri give you that information?"  
  
"He did." Jim held the slip up. "Also, I ran local and statewide checks. Bernard's a boy scout. Nothing pending on Dicky. His housekeeper keeps telling me he's traveling. Even his parking tickets are paid up."  
  
"Well, I might be able to help out." Simon pushed a thin file over. "Called a buddy of mine with ATF. He's got some history with Dicky, but nothing on his brother. He faxed all he had. Some of the addresses are old, but who knows? You might get a lead on his location."  
  
"We can use anything at this point," Jim admitted as he scanned the file. Blair looked over his arm. "Thanks, Simon. Appreciate the assist."  
  
"No problem." Simon looked at Blair, his face softening. "How's it going, Sandburg?"  
  
Blair shrugged.  
  
"Have you spoken to Tristan yet? Or your mother?" Simon asked.  
  
"No." Blair held up his hands. "And I don't want to either. Not until I know more."  
  
"Tapas is running more tests. Blair has another appointment next week," Jim said, filling Simon in. "We'll know more then."  
  
With a guilt ridden sigh, Simon shook his head. "Damn it. If I hadn't made that stupid comment in Aberde-"  
  
Jim stopped him upon seeing Blair's obvious confusion. "He doesn't remember that conversation, Simon."  
  
Simon's jaw snapped shut, his eyes going wide. The room grew quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again. "It's hard to imagine. You really don't remember any of that trip, do you? God, Sandburg, I keep forgetting." As the words left his mouth, Simon grimaced as if in pain.   
  
Blair's gaze slid to the floor, face red as he drank his coffee.  
  
"We'd better get going." Jim nudged Blair toward the door. "Lots to do, suspects to interview. Talk to you later, okay?"  
  
Jim called the phone number on Henri's slip of paper and got no answer, or voice mail. Blair waited quietly at his side. Simon's ATF file looked promising. One address was even worth checking out. They headed for the parking garage.   
  
Once back in the Expedition, Blair released a heavy sigh. "Okay, that was totally weird."   
  
Jim checked his city map. "He didn't mean anything by it, Chief."  
  
"I know," Blair muttered.  
  
"Besides, think about it. You haven't had any new problems yet and it's after nine." Jim pulled out into the street. The traffic was heavy. It never failed to amaze him how many streets the city could tear up in the name of progress at the same time.   
  
"I suppose," Blair said slowly. "Maybe this is over."  
  
"Maybe."   
  
Jim glanced down at the map to check his bearings again. When he looked up, the traffic light ahead was red. He slammed on the brakes and watched in surprise when Blair fell heavily into the lap and shoulder belt. "Sorry, Sandburg. Thought I had time."  
  
"Time?" Blair looked at the intersection. The bisecting one-way street didn't have anyone waiting to pull out. The street was being torn up and a man in a yellow vest was holding back cars to allow a backhoe to reposition. "Why'd you stop?"  
  
"The light's red." Jim pointed up.  
  
Blair looked, squinting into the dazzling spring sunshine. "What's that mean?"  
  
Oh, shit. Jim closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.  
  
They entered the lobby of the apartment building. Jim said one of Dicky Yu's old girlfriends lived on the seventh floor. The lobby was nice, with waxed floors, large potted palms and high ceilings. Blair barely noticed it as he waited by Jim's side for the elevator.   
  
Red means stop.   
  
Okay, he could remember that.   
  
The elevator arrived and Blair followed Jim in. They'd been silent after Jim had explained the 'red light - green light' thing and Blair wondered if he was having second thoughts. Would he find himself looking in the classifieds next week for a cheap room to rent?   
  
Hell, would he be able to read the classifieds next week?  
  
The elevator whisked them up to the seventh floor and Jim led the way down a hall with wall to wall floral carpet that looked new. The apartment building was nice, much too expensive for anything Blair could pay. Still, even with the designer wallpaper and wood molding around the doors, he preferred the old corner building on Prospect Street.   
  
"Here we go," Jim muttered. He knocked on a door with the numbers 714 in gold plated filigree.   
  
Sounds from within caused Jim to step back and to one side. Blair wondered if this was some instinctive cop action. Blair stayed out of the way, just behind Jim's shoulder.   
  
"Who is it?" came a woman's voice from a small speaker next to the door.   
  
Jim leaned down. "Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade Police."  
  
"Please hold up your badge, Detective."  
  
As Jim followed instructions, Blair looked for the camera lens or maybe she was looking through the peep-hole in the door. The door opened and a thin Caucasian woman with short, white spiked hair faced them. She wore expensive looking sweat pants and matching zippered jacket over a very filled out fifty dollar designer T-shirt. Her jewelry was unobtrusive and elegant, a thin gold chain with a simple diamond slide and matching earrings. Blair checked her ring-less fingers. Her nails were short and manicured.   
  
"May I help you?" She had a soft lilt to her voice, like she'd lived in the southern states. Yet she looked nothing like the southern belle personification that her voice suggested. Not that she had nose rings and tattoos, she just looked… hardened.  
  
"Are you Lucile Swath?" Jim asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Just a moment of your time, ma'am," Jim said. "We're investigating a murder. Our records show you used to socially see the victim's brother, Richard Yu?"  
  
"Bernie?" A fine hand flew to her throat. "Oh, no. P-please come in."  
  
The apartment was a mix of cultures. Blair recognized pottery, artwork, pillows, and jade figurines from over a dozen different countries. The woman was either well traveled or knew someone who was. Her living room was cluttered with papers and a laptop computer sat on a small walnut desk. Inviting them to sit on a creamy white leather couch, she folded her trim build into a matching chair.   
  
"I'm sorry, Ma'am. Bernard Yu was found murdered this week," Jim explained as he pulled a small notepad and pen out of his inside jacket pocket. "Actually, we were hoping you could help us find Richard. We're not even sure if he's aware of his brother's death."  
  
"No, I haven't seen Dicky in a year now. I've started my own company and Dicky wasn't happy with the time I needed to spend away from him. He felt threatened, I guess." She gave a weary smile. "He's rather stingy with the things he believed were his."  
  
"Did your new company compete with his business dealings?" Blair asked.   
  
"Oh, no." Lucile waved a hand. "I'm a broker. Odds and ends mostly. Like my collection of authentic cooking pottery from the Dominican Republic. I connect the artists with the galleries, or sometimes the buyers. But, please, tell me more about Bernie. What happened to him? Who did this?"  
  
"We're not sure. He was attacked by unknown persons. The autopsy hasn't been completed yet. I suspect he died from head trauma." Jim raised an eyebrow. "We were hoping to ask his brother some questions. When was the last time you saw Bernard?"  
  
She rubbed her closed eyes. It was obvious the news distressed her. "About five months ago. Bernie was so wonderful; he actually had a lot to do with my survival those first six months. I never would have been able to last this long without him. God, if you'd told me Dicky was murdered… I'd believe you in a second. But Bernie? Who would do that? He didn't have an enemy in the world."  
  
Jim continued to ask questions and she answered. Blair thought she looked honestly upset, but nothing new was learned to help with the case. They finished the interview and left. Blair was beginning to like this Bernard Yu fellow. He had sounded all right, decent even. Dicky, on the other hand, sounded like a thug. Lost in thought, Blair was surprised when Jim handed him his cell phone once they reached the sidewalk.  
  
"Call Tapas, it's number fifteen on the speed dial. Tell him about the traffic light incident. He wanted updates." Jim leaned against the parked Expedition and crossed his arms.  
  
Rolling his eyes, Blair made the call. The nurse connected him with the doctor's voice mail and he left a brief message. "Happy?" Blair asked, handing back the phone.  
  
"Ecstatic," Jim answered with a poker face. "Ready for the morgue?"  
  
"Ewww, before lunch?"  
  
On the way back to the station, Jim redialed the phone number that Henri had given him. A man answered on the third ring. Jim pulled over into an empty parking stall to talk.  
  
"Is George there?" Jim asked, remembering the name on the slip.  
  
"Who's asking?" the male answered. He sounded young, about the same age as Blair, and very cautious.  
  
"Someone that's willing to help. Way I hear it from talk on the street, George isn't very popular right now."  
  
"You a cop?"  
  
These are the moments when a person just has to go with their gut instinct. No police academy can train you for the split-second decision making process needed during an investigation. Jim took a gamble. "Yeah, Detective Ellison. I'm willing to get George into a safe location. But I want answers from him."  
  
"I'll pass on the information."  
  
Jim gave his cell number and the man hung up without another word. The cell phone went back into his pocket. From this second on, he'd need to keep it charged and with him at all times.   
  
"He go for it?" Blair asked.  
  
"Not sure, that might have been George, for all I know." Jim checked his side mirror and pulled back out into the moving traffic. "Nothing to do but wait."  
  
"What did you hear in the background?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim thought about it. What had he heard? "Not much, traffic I think, but muted. Maybe he was calling from inside a car." Jim noticed he was approaching a stale yellow light. He watched Blair out of the corner of his eye. When the light switched to red, he watched Blair's body brace for a stop.  
  
He learned fast.   
  
After the trip to the morgue, Blair studied his lunch with a wary eye. His stomach had no interest in food. His brain was still trying to forget the images of Bernard Yu's own stomach contents laid out for everyone to see, along with his other organs. It was one thing to watch a TV autopsy from the comforts of the loft, but quite another to stand in the room with the real deal. God, the smell alone…  
  
"You finishing that?" Jim asked.  
  
Blair pushed the baked potato with melted cheese and broccoli to his friend. Jim had already had a sandwich and a bowl of chowder. Apparently autopsies made the older man hungry.  
  
Jim picked up a plastic fork and dug in. "It's better with bacon bits."   
  
"So, the killer did the nasty with the frying pan?" Blair asked, changing the subject from food. "Then why the knife?"   
  
"Good question." Jim paused and chewed thoughtfully. "Rage? Maybe to make sure he was dead? Who knows?"  
  
Jim's cell phone rang. While the cop answered, Blair sipped his ice tea and reached across the table to help himself to Jim's untouched package of crackers. Maybe he could manage to keep them down. Jim said a few words into the phone and hung up.  
  
"The university left some messages at the station for you this morning. They want you to call some Riley guy."  
  
Blair borrowed the phone, promising to keep the call short. After hanging up, he sighed. "The TA taking my classes needs me to go over a few things, man. Can you drop me off at Rainier? I'll catch the bus later."  
  
"We can do that." Jim dug into the potato. "You realize you're getting out of some fun detective work, don't you? I have piles and piles of phone records, business records and miscellaneous paperwork to read this afternoon."  
  
Blair grinned. "Oh, darn."  
  
But when they arrived at Rainier an hour later, Jim looked uncertain. "I don't know, Sandburg."  
  
"What?" Blair released his seatbelt.  
  
Ducking his head to look out the windshield, Jim acted as if snipers waited on rooftops. "How long will this take? Maybe I should wait."  
  
Blair chuckled. "Forget it. I'm spending the afternoon here. I'll either grab a bus to the station or to the loft. I'll call and tell you, okay?" He gently freed his arm from Jim's hold. "Now go read your fascinating reports." He climbed out of the Ford. Jim still looked doubtful. "Jim, it's cool. Okay? Go. I'll call."  
  
"Okay," Jim said. He waited for Blair to close the door before pointing a finger at him and mouthed the words 'call me'.   
  
Blair raised a hand before turning around. Hargrove waited for him. As he walked toward the impressive stone building, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever return as a student or a TA again.   
  
Blair ended up staying later than he'd planned. Gary Riley had drawn the short straw and ended up with the bulk of Blair's responsibilities. The guy was okay, but Blair knew his students could look forward to a few boring weeks.   
  
Ah, well. Blair tried to keep it in perspective. How many dry lectures had he sat through? It built character.   
  
After Gary left, Blair picked up the phone to call Jim. A wave of uneasiness caused him to grip the edge of his old desk.   
  
"What the hell?" Blair closed his eyes and focused again on the phone. Logic told him he should be looking at numbers. But his brain wasn't playing. What did that squiggly line mean? Was that a cross with a tail pointing up?   
  
He pulled out his desk drawer. Maybe he wrote the phone numbers down on a scrap of paper. But he couldn't find anything that even looked like a number. "Oh, man. This is nuts."  
  
Okay, okay. Think.  
  
All he needed was the downtown bus.   
  
His hand trembled as he switched off the office lights. He walked to the bus stop deep in thought. He didn't need to identify the bus number; he just needed to pick the right bus. Was it every hour or on the halves?   
  
No one waited at the small shelter next to the bus stop. Blair took a seat on the cold metal bench and tried not to freak. The first bus came. Blair read the digital reader board above the windshield. Damn, lots of alien looking symbols. Okay, he'd take the next one. People showed up, strangers. They ignored him. Blair tried to stay relaxed. It was a huge campus. He was later than his usual time. But what if he was seeing people he knew? And he wasn't recognizing them? Maybe they felt he was slighting them because of his lack of recognition.   
  
An older woman walked up, clutching her purse closely. Blair was almost sure he didn't know her. Except… maybe she worked at the cafeteria?   
  
"Hi."  
  
She turned away.  
  
Or not. Blair finger combed his hair back from his face. He felt his chest tighten with uncertainty. What he wouldn't give for a blue Expedition being driven by a cranky 'I told you so' sentinel right about now. Don't go there. He couldn't expect Jim to baby-sit him the rest of his life. He was going to have to learn how to deal with this. Looking down the street, Blair could see another bus appearing. Damn, it was going in the wrong direction. The lady got on board and he was alone again.  
  
This was stupid. Sure, he didn't remember his numbers. It wasn't as if he was a deaf-mute.   
  
When the next bus appeared, still not having the word he wanted on the reader, he stuck his head in the door to speak to the driver. "Do you go by the police station?"  
  
"Nope, this'll take you to the harbor," a thin man with yellow teeth told him.  
  
Good enough. "I live on Prospect. Is it close?"  
  
He let his eyes travel up and down Blair's body. "You look like a brisk walk won't hurt you. It's close enough."  
  
Blair smiled. "Cool, thanks." He dropped the money into the box and moved toward the middle of the bus to drop into an empty pair of seats. Only a few other passengers were on board. Blair relaxed, knowing he could look forward to another phone call to Tapas' voice mail, but at least he'd be calling from the loft.  
  
"You're still here?" Simon asked as he switched off his office light and closed the door.  
  
Jim nodded. "Waiting for Sandburg to call. Thought I'd pick him up."  
  
"Any luck?"  
  
"Some. Dicky's legal businesses aren't doing so hot. But Bernard was raking in the money hand-over-fist."   
  
Simon looked surprised. "You had PC to check Richard Yu's business records?"  
  
"Well," Jim drawled lazily as he leaned back. "I called in a few favors. I was curious." He stood. It was late and he wanted to go home. He glanced at his watch, frowning. "Sandburg should have called me by now."  
  
"Maybe he's already home," Simon suggested as he passed. "See you tomorrow, Jim."  
  
"Night." Jim picked up the phone and called the loft once more. His previous calls had gone unanswered. This was no different. "Damn." The old number for Blair's office didn't pick up either. Jim set the phone down again. "I knew I should have just insisted on picking you up, Darwin."  
  
Jim left the bullpen. It was still light outside, even though it was past quitting time, a sure sign spring had arrived with its longer days. Jim sped toward Rainier, as if the Ford had a mind of its own. He needed to be sure Blair was no longer there. After parking and finding Hargrove Hall locked, Jim got security and they went inside.  
  
No Blair.  
  
Jim thanked the campus officers for their help and returned to his Expedition. He called the loft again, even though he hated tying up the line. He was still waiting for this George character to call him. No answer at the loft. Jim called the station and got the desk sergeant. Blair had not shown up looking for him.  
  
There was nothing left to do but to drive to the loft. When Jim arrived, the sun was gone. Shadows deepened and a cool breeze blew off the water, dropping the temperature. Jim looked up to see the dark windows of his apartment. He extended his hearing. Blair wasn't there. Without wasting any time parking and running up the stairs, Jim drove past the loft, turned around and headed back toward Rainier.   
  
He'd try the side streets.   
  
Jim had just left Rainier for the second time when his cell phone rang.   
  
"Ellison!"  
  
"Detective? This is dispatch," a man's voice said. He sounded hesitant, as if unsure of his welcome. "We've got a rather insistent person calling nine-one-one. Actually, he had someone else dial it…"  
  
"Sandburg? Did he give his name? Was it Sandburg?"  
  
"It is, sir."  
  
"Can you patch him through?" Jim waited a minute, hearing a series of clicks until a familiar heartbeat came over the airwaves. "Blair?"  
  
"Jim! Oh, god. Thank you, Mrs. Garcia. I've got him." Blair was talking to someone else, his voice distant as if turned away from the speaker. Then he was back. "Jim?"  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"I am now," Blair said breathlessly, sounding panicked. "I'm not sure where I am, man. I can't find Prospect."  
  
"Calm down," Jim ordered. "Give me the address."  
  
Blair's laughter had a hysteria overtone that did nothing to make Jim feel better. What was going on?   
  
"Sandburg, where are you?"  
  
"Ah… I'm near a shoe repair store. Only, I don't know where! He said the harbor. I thought it was our harbor, not the north end. I'm turned around. There's no more buses running. I can't find the water anymore, it's dark. The windows are all boarded up and I've got a bad feel-"   
  
"Chief," Jim said, nearly shouting. "A name! Give me the name of the shoe store."  
  
"Detective?" the dispatcher's voice came on. Jim realized he had never hung up. "We've got his address on our monitor; a payphone. Twelve, fifty-three north Henderson, by the coastal freeway."  
  
Jim gunned the Ford. Shit, Blair was nowhere near the loft or Rainier. "Thanks, dispatch. I owe you one." He could still hear Blair's rapid heart beat over the phone. "Blair? Did you hear that? I'm on my way."  
  
"How l-long?"  
  
"Twenty minutes, tops. Less than that if the traffic's light." Jim prayed for empty roads. What had happened? What had Blair's brain taken from him this time? "Tell you what. I'm going to break the rules here and drive while talking on the cell phone, okay? Promise not to turn me in?"  
  
Blair's attempt at laughter was pathetic. Jim could hear chattering. "God, Jim. I'm totally screwed, you know? What's next?"  
  
"You're going to be fine. You're just having a setback. We'll get this sorted out." Jim perfected a classic 'California Stop' at the next stop sign, glanced both ways and gunned the motor till he was doing ten over the posted limit. His prayers were answered with light traffic. "Are you alone?"  
  
"Yeah, all the b-buildings are closed. Mrs. Garcia was leaving the store, made the call for me." Blair was starting to sound calmer.   
  
Jim kept his roommate talking. Not about the new misplaced memory, Jim would find out soon enough. The conversation stayed on Rainier and the TA that Blair had worked with that afternoon. Apparently the guy was a monotone speaker with no personality. Seventeen minutes from the time the dispatcher had called, Jim was two blocks away from the phone booth.  
  
"I'm here. Can you see me?"  
  
"I see headlights. Is that you, man?"   
  
The desperation in Blair's voice was enough to make Jim strangle his steering wheel. Jim's genetically enhanced vision knifed through the darkness to pinpoint the small figure shivering in a graffiti covered phone booth. He flicked his high beams. "I've got you, buddy."  
  
Blair still had the phone in his hand when Jim pulled up alongside. He didn't seem willing to turn it loose. Jim got out, laying his cell phone down. Blair waited until Jim neared before dropping the phone. His face was pale. He looked lost and frightened even with Jim standing before him. Letting Blair latch on to his arms, Jim gathered up the swinging handset with his left hand and drew Blair close with his right.  
  
"Dispatch? You still there?" Jim asked.  
  
"I'm here. Are you Code Four, Sir?" the man asked.  
  
"I am. Thanks again."   
  
"You're welcome. Take care."  
  
Jim replaced the handset and looked down at Blair. "Hey."  
  
Blair's eyes were closed. He had a death grip on Jim's jacket, but he looked healthy and Jim couldn't smell any blood.   
  
"I just want to go home," Blair whispered.  
  
"Okay, then." Jim steered him toward the SUV. "What happened to that phone call? You said you'd call before you left."  
  
Blair shook his head slowly. He let Jim open the passenger door and climbed into the seat. He gave Jim a miserable look. "Do you know how many things have numbers in them, man?"   
  
Blair insisted on making dinner. "It's not much. Just roast beef and tomato sandwiches." He finished the tomato and began arranging slices carefully over the meat. Satisfied that each bit would get the proper ratio, Blair added the lettuce and top bread. He carefully cut each sandwich into two triangles. When he set the plates down on the table, he looked up to see Jim watching him.  
  
"Dinner's served." He added two beers from the icebox. "Sorry you had to wait."   
  
"It's okay, Sandburg. Stop apologizing." Jim joined him at the table. "You needed that hot shower first."  
  
Blair had been freezing. Hell, he still felt ice icicles in his chest. But they had been produced from the chill of fear, of an unknown future. Gallons of hot water hadn't touched that region within his body. But he was starting to feel better, to feel connected again with his life. He was home and he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. It was such a relief not to be lost in a strange part of town. Was his memory starting to dump entire neighborhoods now?   
  
"What happened, Chief?" Jim asked gently after a few minutes of silent eating.  
  
"Someone switched out my phone," Blair weakly joked. "I couldn't read any of the numbers."  
  
"So, you should have had someone call for you," Jim pointed out logically.  
  
Blair rocked his head side to side with little motions. "Okay, sure, yeah. Now that makes sense. But at the time, I figured I'd just catch the bus and deal, you know? I didn't want to… "  
  
"What?"  
  
Blair ducked his head. "Be a bother, man."  
  
"Sandburg." Jim's sigh was loud. "You're not a bother. You're my friend. I'm part of what's happened to you. I'm not expecting you to slog through this alone."  
  
"God, Jim." Blair pushed the half eaten sandwich away. "I'm so wishing now I had talked to you before going to Tapas."  
  
Jim pushed Blair's plate back. "If wishes were horses… Better finish that. You didn't eat lunch and protein starving your brain is not the path to health, Young Grasshopper."  
  
Blair smiled. "Yes, Old One."  
  
"After dinner, I'll teach you numbers," Jim said matter-of-factly.  
  
Blair nearly choked on the roast beef. "What?"  
  
Jim continued to eat, talking with one cheek full of sandwich. "What's the red light mean, Blair?"   
  
"It means stop."  
  
"Right," Jim said with a nod. "You're retaining your new memories. I think your brain is accepting these reminders and creating new memories on top the old ones. You're still one of the smartest guys I know. You'll be able to relearn you numbers, I'm sure."  
  
Blair was speechless.   
  
Jim went back to eating his sandwich between sips of beer.  
  
"You... where'd you learn that? Is it true?" Blair finally asked.  
  
"Why not? It's basically what Tapas was hinting to in his office. I know you had a lot of info dumped in your lap all at once, so I tried to pay close attention. I talked to some medical geeks this afternoon, buddies of Dan's. Just general stuff, I didn't tell anyone about you." Jim ended his speech by popping the last of the sandwich into his mouth. He mumbled around his food, "That was pretty good, I'm making another. Want one?"  
  
Jim eyed the cards fanned out in his hand. Blair sat across from him on the large area rug. The coffee table had been moved to one side to make room. They shared a large bowl of popcorn between them. The butter anointed Jim's bandaged hand with grease, but he didn't mind. The salty buttered popcorn mixed with the beer gave him a pleasant buzz.  
  
"Got any threes?" Jim asked.  
  
Blair's snort spoke of his relaxed state of mind. "You so get to go fish, man."  
  
"Jerk, you don't have to gloat." Jim picked up another card to add to his growing hand. "Wait till we graduate to poker, Mr. Hoyle. I'm going to take you to the cleaners."  
  
Blair reached for another handful of popcorn just as Jim's cell phone rang. Laying the cards face down, Jim unfolded his legs and stiffly stood up. "Don't cheat."  
  
"Don't have to," Blair answered smugly with a mouthful of corn.   
  
"Ellison."   
  
"…"  
  
"Hello?" Jim dialed up his hearing. He could hear breathing and a distant sound of water lapping, like a shoreline, without the sounds of gulls or surf.   
  
"I'm calling for George."  
  
It was the same voice that had answered the number Brown had given him. Jim transferred the phone to his yellow stained hand and reached for a pen. "Is he willing to talk with me?"  
  
"Yeah, he'll meet. Tomorrow. I'll call with the meet place."  
  
"Wait," Jim ordered before the connection was gone. "What time? I need to make sure this phone isn't being used. I don't want to miss you."  
  
"Same as now, I'll call in twenty-four."   
  
The line disconnected. Jim reached for a tissue to clean off the butter before returning the phone to its charger. It was already past eight in the evening. He'd have to arrange for some swing shift backup.  
  
"Was it George?" Blair asked from his position, sitting Indian-style on a large throw pillow.  
  
"Still not sure. Same guy as before," Jim told him. He headed for the icebox. His beer was about finished. It was time to switch to a non-alcohol drink and get some fluids into his body. "I'll know more tomorrow when I meet him."  
  
"When we meet him, you mean," Blair said in his best 'I will not be left behind' tone.   
  
"We'll see, Cool-Hand." Jim picked out a chilled bottled water and returned to the floor. "Whose turn?"  
  
The next morning Blair was awake, showered and making his algae shake by the time Jim rolled out of bed. The disgusting concoction was just getting the blender treatment as he descended to the main level. Blair's bedroom door stood ajar and Jim looked in on his way to the bathroom. It was hard to tell by the normal mess, but Jim thought the bed looked slept in. Once again, Blair had been turning pages when Jim had dropped off to sleep last night.  
  
"Morning," Blair greeted happily.  
  
"Back at cha, how'd you sleep?" Jim asked, pausing at the door frame to the bathroom.  
  
Blair rolled his shoulders in a smooth shrug. "Guess what? I started reviewing basic math last night? And I made real progress. I worked up to geometry and Trig. Pretty cool, huh? I think it's like when you forget the definition of a word, but you remember the word. I did the opposite. I forgot what the numbers looked like, but remembered what to do with them."  
  
"So, you're saying you didn't get any sleep," Jim deduced.  
  
"I'll make up for that tonight." Blair grinned back. "Too psyched. You'd make a bodacious teacher, Jim. You should consider switching occupations."  
  
"I'll leave the scary stuff to you," Jim said before going into the bathroom.  
  
Jim used the john, stripped and stepped into the shower. To save time, he shaved under the massaging shower head. Climbing back up the stairs in his robe, he dressed for the day and joined Blair in the kitchen. His roommate had just finished his shake while sitting at the table. The dirty glass still held green residue within.  
  
"We're almost out of milk," Blair said, his head down as he curled over a pad of paper.  
  
Jim made a note to stop at the corner market. They needed more popcorn, too. He fixed a large bowl of cereal and threw the empty milk carton under the sink. "Remind me to carry the garbage down on our way out."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Jim sat across the table, watching Blair carefully pencil another long line of number fours, over and over again. Half the page was filled with fours. Blair held the pencil in his fist, his knuckles white, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.  
  
"Lighten up on that grip, slugger. Your hand's going to cramp," Jim warned. "Your numbers already look better than your original handwriting, cut yourself some slack."  
  
"I'm still getting the four wrong. And I'm confusing the nines and sixes."  
  
Jim let it go. Blair was being Blair, whether it was learning numbers or some courtship ritual of a South American tribe, he had to be as accurate as he knew how. It gave Jim some measure of comfort, actually. Even with Blair's memory screwed up, no drug would completely erase his friend's personality.  
  
Holding a spoonful of milk covered toasted oats, Jim got one last word in, "I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when you drop your hot coffee in your lap," he warned primly.  
  
Blair snickered.   
  
The drive to work was pleasant, filled with easy kidding and small talk. Jim's cell phone rang four blocks from the station. It was Richard Yu's attorney. Jim had an appointment in thirty minutes in Chinatown, if he was available. Terminating the connection, Jim made a right turn, away from the station and tossed the phone to Blair.   
  
"Call Simon for me? Tell him we're meeting Dicky Yu at the 'Fierce Dragon'." Jim was careful not to let Blair know he was watching.  
  
With the same intense concentration that he had shown at breakfast, Blair took a minute to study the small keypad and carefully dialed the number by heart. He tucked a wavy strand of hair behind his ear to prepare it for the cell phone and flashed Jim a smile as he told Simon the news.  
  
"Okay," Blair said, folding the phone closed. "He said to check in every hour or he's sending back up."  
  
The 'Fierce Dragon' was known to be Richard Yu's favorite hangout. Jim had checked there right after Bernard's murder to get a line on his brother's location but had come up empty. Now it appeared that Dicky was ready to resurface. It was too early for normal business, so parking wasn't an issue. Jim parked in front of the ornate red and gold building with a roof that curled up at the edges. The architect had gone for an ancient China look that matched the rest of Cascade's Chinatown district.  
  
The man that unlocked the front door and let them in looked like a TV thug, muscle for hire.   
  
"You packing?" the man asked. He had a narrow face, his suit cut to accommodate his thick arms and broad chest.  
  
"What do you think, pal?" Jim answered, holding up his detective shield. "And, no, I'm not going to let you search. So don't ask."  
  
The man's hooded eyes flicked from Jim to Blair. "He a cop, too?"  
  
"He's with me." Jim crossed his arms. Even with his additional height, he wondered if he could take this guy hand to hand. "That's all you need to know. Can we cut this dance short, now? Take us to Dicky. We have an appointment."  
  
"This way."   
  
The thug turned, leading them into the dim interior, past empty tables and up dark red carpeted stairs. Another thug materialized from the shadows and stepped into position behind them. Jim could hear two more heartbeats ahead. Their escort knocked on an ornately carved door and waited for permission to enter. When it came, he opened the door and stepped to one side to let them pass.   
  
Richard Yu stood up from his position behind a computer desk. His suit was wrinkled, his black tie opened at the neck. Jim's sense of smell told him Dicky hadn't showered in the last couple of days. Grief lined the suspected gangster's face and haunted his eyes. With a weary wave, he indicated both visitors to take a seat in the leather and mahogany chairs before the desk.  
  
"Please, I've just returned from a business trip in California. What can you tell me about my brother's murder?" He had no accent, even though he looked full Chinese. His short dark hair was cut fashionably with just enough gray at the temples to give a respectable look.   
  
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Yu," Jim said. He waited for Blair to take the inside chair before sitting down. "I was hoping you could shed some light on who would want to kill your brother."  
  
Dicky dropped back into his seat. "I have no idea, Detective…?"  
  
"Ellison," Jim said. "James Ellison. This is Blair Sandburg."  
  
Blair nodded, raising a hand in a mute greeting.   
  
"Detective Ellison," Dicky repeated as if memorizing the name. "I can tell you everyone liked my brother."  
  
"Word on the street says you might know who the killer is. I'm told you're looking for him." Jim kept his face neutral, his tone light. He'd never had occasion to meet Richard Yu face to face before, but there was no doubt the man knew the police were aware of his reputation.  
  
Dicky leaned back, his arms outstretched as he braced himself against the wooden desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Dicky said.   
  
Jim scratched his chin, as if in thought. For such an extravagant building, the room and its furnishings were rather plain. No windows, not much in the way of art. Jim got the feeling it wasn't Dicky's office. "How are you connected with this place? Owner? Partner?"  
  
"My brother was murdered, Detective," Dicky said quietly, his face darkening with anger. "How does knowing my business details help you find the killer?"  
  
"Everything helps. That's why we ask. Like, for instance, do you have proof you were in California when your brother was murdered? Can you give me an alibi that doesn't include names of people on your payroll?"  
  
"Yes," Dicky spat out. "If it gets you off my back and on to the job of finding Bernie's killer."  
  
"Good." Jim offered his best smile as he pulled out his notebook. "Let's start with that, then I'll ask my other questions."  
  
After the interview was concluded and the same thug escorted them back outside, Blair spoke for the first time, "You believe any of that?"  
  
"He was lying some of the time. I think he does suspect someone," Jim said quietly as he towed Blair away from the building. He wasn't convinced they were not under observation. He wouldn't put it past the man to have listening devices installed near the entrance.  
  
"What now?" Blair asked as they walked toward the Expedition. "Follow up on the names he gave, check out that California Alibi?"  
  
"That's what I'm thinking, yeah."   
  
Jim looked both directions for traffic before crossing over to where he had parked. A fire engine approached. Something told him to let it pass. He caught Blair's arm and held him back. Sure enough, the officer riding in the cab next to the driver picked that second to turn on his siren while the driver activated the large vehicle's warning lights. The effect was spectacular. Blair jumped as if electrocuted, falling backward, and tripping over the edge of the sidewalk.   
  
Jim's hold kept Blair from falling. "Sandburg!"  
  
Blair's wide eyes were fixed on the approaching vehicle. Sure, the siren was loud and Jim appreciated his own ability to dial down his hearing in time, but Blair's actions made no sense. Blair clapped hands over his ears and yelled out in fear. Jim had to reposition his hold to keep the younger man from running.  
  
"Chief! Calm down!" Jim ordered after the truck had passed.   
  
The entire episode had lasted only a few seconds, but left Blair an emotional wreck.  
  
"What…What was that!" Blair almost screamed, still trying to twist free.  
  
Jim didn't understand at first, then reality hit.   
  
Blair's faulty memory had struck. Jim tried to imagine hearing the shrill sound of the engine's siren for the first time, the way the lights strobed and flashed out in warning. Jim understood. "It's okay!" Jim said, then quieter, "It's okay. It was a fire truck. You've seen them before, you just forgot."  
  
Blair's eyes were still following the departing truck. He stilled. His body trembled, but he stood tall again. "I have?"  
  
"Yeah, you've seen them lots of times."  
  
"S-shit." Blair shuddered, then looked back at Jim. "It was so…"  
  
Turning him loose, Jim checked the street again for traffic. He patted Blair's shoulder. "I know, it startled me too. Let's get back to the station before Simon gets worried about us."   
  
Blair was silent as he got in the Ford. Jim didn't push. He could tell by the slumped shoulders, Blair's earlier sense of confidence just became a hit and run victim by a city fire truck.  
  
When they arrived at the police station, Simon met them as Jim and Blair walked into the bullpen.   
  
"I was about to call. You two have a visitor," Simon announced, hitching his thumb behind him. "He's waiting in my office."   
  
Wonderful.   
  
Jim tossed his jacket over the back of his chair. "Who is it?"  
  
With a glance at Blair, Simon avoided the question. "I have a division meeting, should be back before lunch. You guys can use my office. I'll catch up when I'm finished and treat you both to lunch." He was gone without further discussion.  
  
The shades were drawn, blocking their view into Simon's space. Did George decide to come in from the cold? There was nothing left but to go in. He checked his partner. Blair still looked gun-shy with the world at large.  
  
"Ready to see who's behind door number one?" Jim asked.  
  
"No, but let's go anyway," Blair muttered under his breath.  
  
Dr. Tapas looked up as they entered. "Ah, you're both here. That was fast."  
  
"You make… police station calls?" Jim asked in mild shock.   
  
"You found out something?" Blair asked simultaneously.   
  
Without his white smock, Tapas looked like a banker with his lean build and bookish appearance. He smiled as he held up a file. "I've discovered some fascinating information. I had to drive up personally to talk to you, Mr. Sandburg."  
  
Blair eased into the nearest chair, looking apprehensive. Jim didn't blame him. Tapas had a look of a man who had just made a rare discovery. It didn't promote warm and cuddly feeling within Jim either.  
  
"Blair. Please call me Blair," the younger man asked. "What did you find out?"  
  
Pulling a chair close to Blair's, the medical doctor sat and opened the file. "Your MRI tests proved your area of the brain that holds your short term memory appears perfectly fine. Good blood flow, no shrinkage – like we've seen in the past with patients that have either schizophrenia or severe depression."  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. "I could have told you he doesn't have any of that."  
  
Blair gave Jim a faint smile. "Thanks, man."  
  
Tapas continued unaffected. "What captured my attention were two things. You have a trace of an unusual mineral in your work up. It seems to be blocking your synaptic density, the connections of your nerve cells. I checked the samples from Detective Ellison and it wasn't there."  
  
Blair looked concerned. Jim leaned against Simon's desk and waited.  
  
"Don't worry, Blair. This is good news; we need to identify how you were exposed. Once we stop it, your long term memory should be fine. But I did find something that raised a few eyebrows." Tapas tapped a report with a long finger. "Our tests found a protein in your body we'd never seen before. We've traced it to your neurons."   
  
Jim definitely didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. Mutated cells? Was he about to tell Blair he had cancer? From the look on Blair's face, it appeared he was thinking the same thing. They exchanged a quick look. Tapas continued, unaware.  
  
"I'm not sure how aware you are of neurons, bu –"  
  
Blair interrupted. "Neurons have a nucleus that contains genes. They carry out basic cellular processes like protein synthesis and energy production and communicate with each other through an electrochemical process." He churned the air before him with a wave of his hand. "I know all that. Just tell me. Is my memory going to get normal again? I can't be ruining my boxers every time a … what was that thing, Jim?"  
  
"Fire engine," Jim supplied.  
  
"Every time a fire engine drives by," Blair explained.  
  
Tapas looked surprised. "Of course, I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I don't have all the answers, Blair. But this information might explain why your body reacted to the drug in a way no one expected."  
  
"Doc, is this neuron difference going to get worse? Is Blair sick?" Jim had to know.   
  
"No, no, I don't think so." Tapas became animated again. "I truly believe this is a normal condition for him. His body seems to accept the difference. You see, the basic function of the neuron is to transmit information. You have over twenty billion, penetrating every tissue in every part. A person has many of the same neurons their whole life. Although other cells die and are replaced, many neurons are never replaced when they die. In fact, we have fewer neurons when we're old than when we're young."  
  
"I know all this," Blair said. "I don't mean to be rude, but how does this affect my memory?"  
  
Tapas took a felt pen from his pocket, turned the file over and started to draw. "Neurons are fundamental. They affect sensation, perception, memory, emotion and health. A basic nerve cell consists of a cell body, an axon, and many dendrites."  
  
Jim zoomed in on the drawing from his position by Simon's desk. The man drew what looked like a fried egg with a kite-like tail. Only the egg part had forks sticking out like split hairs.   
  
The doctor tapped the forks with the felt tip. "Dendrites are thread-like branches that increase the surface area of the cell, making it possible for it to receive many connections with adjoining nerve cells. Signals picked up by the dendrites travel through the cell and continue along the axon where they are transmitted to the next cell." Tapas switched over to tap the tail of the kite. "Down here are synaptic bulbs, they're on the ends of the axons and make connections with other nerve cells, with tiny gaps or synapses between the cells."   
  
Tapas pointed to Blair. "You have synaptic bulbs on your dendrites. What I don't understand is what are they doing there? What are they making connections to?"  
  
Later, after Tapas had left, Jim followed up on the leads from Richard Yu's interview. Blair continued to review the reports Jim hadn't gotten to yet. Neither man discussed or speculated the information Tapas had shared. They were still working when Simon returned just before the noon hour, making 'follow me' motions on his way into his office.  
  
"What was Tapas doing here?" Simon asked as soon as the door was closed.  
  
Jim massaged the back of his neck with one hand. He was stiff from cradling a phone against his shoulder most of the morning. He deferred to Blair. Technically, Simon had no standing to inquire about his partner's medical condition. But Jim knew he was asking as a concerned friend, not a supervisor.  
  
Blair seemed to feel the same way. "They think something organic mixed with the drug used to erase my memory. They're trying to identify it." Blair leaned against the conference table, arms crossed over his chest, expression strangely neutral.   
  
"Okay, that's a good thing. Right?" Simon glanced to Jim.  
  
Blair shrugged. "I guess I'll know more later."  
  
"I hope it's soon, Sandburg." Simon started to fill his coffee carafe from his stash of bottled water. "So, catch me up with the Yu murder. You met with Dicky, right?"  
  
"Right, Sir." Jim took point. "He denied putting out the bounty on George. No surprise there. He seems to have an alibi, though. I've spent the last couple of hours on it, can't seem to find any holes. Dicky was in California on business, but it wouldn't be hard to create a paper trail and slip back to Cascade unnoticed."  
  
"Where does this leave us?"  
  
"We've got George. If Dicky thinks George killed his brother, maybe he did," Jim said. "We're meeting him tonight. His go-between is calling around eight. No one else pops up an obvious suspect."  
  
His coffee brewing, Simon went to his desk and sat down. "How about the restaurant angle?"   
  
"We're pretty certain the killing happened in the kitchen. No matches to the hair or skin we found under the victim's nails, slim chance anyway. We'll have to wait until we get a suspect and hope for a match." Jim rubbed his nose and sighed. There was still so much they didn't have, like motive. "Everyone says this guy was a saint."  
  
"Yeah, hard to believe he was the brother of an organized crime mobster," Blair added.  
  
"Dicky's still small potatoes, way I understand," Simon explained. "Brown was saying Bernard had the brain for business, but he preferred to keep away from the shady part of his brother's dealings."  
  
"Yeah, we heard the same," Jim agreed. "Although the two of them were close."  
  
"Well, listen. It sounds like you're looking at a late night," Simon said. "Why don't you take a few hours off? Rest up and go back on the clock for the meet with George. I've got the swing shift guys on notice. Two detectives are assigned to back you up when you call with the location."  
  
"Thanks, Simon." Jim stood. "That sounds like a plan. Come on, Chief."  
  
Blair looked surprised. "Wow, this is a switch."  
  
Jim leaned down as he passed and mock-whispered, "Simon must have seen my comp time stats."  
  
"Yes, I did," Simon growled. "We're going to have a chat soon. Start using more of that, Mister. The payroll clerk is having fits."  
  
Once in the Ford, Jim glanced at his companion. Blair hadn't said more than twenty words since Tapas' visit. He wasn't sure if the younger man was upset or just dealing with the information, analyzing it, turning it over in his head. Normally Blair did that sort of thing out loud.   
  
"Lunch out? Or back at the Loft?"   
  
"Loft?" Blair asked with a half-guilty look.  
  
"Works for me." Jim started the vehicle and let Blair sit quietly all the way home.  
  
Once up in their apartment, Blair's response to food was lackluster. "I'm going to crash for a few hours."   
  
"Hold up, Houdini." Jim raised a hand. "Can we talk?"  
  
"About?" Guarded and cautious, Blair made his stand from within the entrance to his room.   
  
Jim recognized a pending argument. It wasn't the way he planned on drawing his friend out. He wanted to be supportive, not overbearing. "You've had a load dumped on you this morning. I thought you'd want to talk. It's not natural for you to be this quiet. Frankly, it's scary." He meant the last part as a joke, but it backfired.  
  
"And we both know this is all about you, right, man?" Blair shot back, his accusation dripping with sarcasm. Suddenly Blair's eyes widened and his complexion paled. Jim didn't even have time to respond before Blair spoke again. "Oh, Shit! I'm sorry. I'm just… It's been… "  
  
"Blair, relax, okay?" It was physically painful to watch Blair like this. "I'm just trying to help."  
  
Blair drifted away from his room, looking lost. Collapsing onto the sofa, he let his head fall back and gazed soulfully at the high ceiling. "I know. I'm just wigging out. I feel like the ground's being ripped out from under my feet."  
  
Jim snatched up the fruit bowl and carried it into the living room. He set it on the coffee table. "I can imagine."  
  
"Jim, I can't remember …" Blair's voice broke, but he cleared his throat and continued. "It dawned on me this morning, after Tapas left. I sort of wondered how I got so lucky to have you as a friend and then I realized I didn't know how we met."  
  
Some of that terra firma slipped away from under Jim's own feet. He pushed down the panic and took a seat next to his roommate. "No problem, I'll remind you."  
  
Blair turned to face Jim, his eyes bright with fear. "Does it start off 'Once upon a time'?"  
  
Jim threw an arm around Blair's shoulder, nudging his head up until he could slip under. "You're getting the Readers Digest version, Junior."  
  
"Figures," Blair huffed, but he left his head resting comfortably on Jim's arm.  
  
"Okay. Here goes, my sentinel senses were kicking in big time and I thought I was losing it," Jim said, ignoring Blair's snort. "You found me, tried to tell me what was happening. I wouldn't listen. You pushed. I pushed – actually, I think I had you pinned to the wall for a few seconds. Anyway, I blew you off and left."  
  
Blair's head tilted on Jim's arm as he watched the cop speak, his expression a dry sponge, soaking in every droplet of information. Jim felt ashamed. He forced himself to go into more detail. "A small voice told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life when I left your office at Hargrove, Chief. But I was stupid."  
  
"What happened?" Blair whispered.  
  
"I zoned, right in the middle of the street. I guess I walked out before you got a chance to explain about those. Not that it would've mattered. I really had my head on backwards. One of Cascade's finest was bearing down on me, a garbage truck. At the last possible minute, you knocked me flat on my face and the truck went right over both of us."  
  
"No way."   
  
"Way."  
  
Blair curled forward, his face in his hands, shoulders hunched. Then after a several long moments, he spoke. "Okay, that note I wrote makes sense now. I couldn't figure out the part about the garbage truck."  
  
"The note I saw you reading in the Mercer Island clinic?" Jim asked.  
  
Blair reached for a banana. "Yeah."  
  
"What did it say?"  
  
Blair's grinned. He still looked weary, but no longer frightened. "None of your business, man."  
  
Jim's reply was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. He waited a second to see if they stopped across the hall.   
  
Nope.  
  
"You expecting anyone?" Jim rose from the sofa and went to the door, turning the handle as the first knock sounded.  
  
One very pissed off Naomi stood next to a grim looking Tristan.   
  
Behind him, Jim could hear Blair's quiet groan.  
  
"Can this day get any worse?" Blair muttered in a hushed voice.  
  
"Jim? Is Blair in?" Naomi asked coolly. She wore her trademark long, gauzy dress; underneath, a black spandex bodysuit. Dozens of thin silver bracelets clinked together on her wrists. Gypsy hoops hung from her earlobes.  
  
Jim stepped back, surrendering the view of his roommate sitting on the sofa. "Come in."  
  
Naomi limped in, leaving a permafrost trail in her wake. Tristan followed, somewhat reluctantly. As mother and son had their reunion, Jim tried to get some insight. "She knows?" Jim whispered.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Tristan answered, equally as quiet.  
  
Jim closed the door. This was going to be interesting.  
  
Blair stood to receive his mother. She framed his face with her hands, flattening his hair back. It was a gesture that only mothers could do without embarrassing their grown children. Uncharacteristically silent, she stared into Blair's eyes as if reading his thoughts.   
  
Blair endured.   
  
Jim thought he did a superb job of standing up to her scrutiny. He kept his back straight and returned her gaze with more confidence and strength than Jim had seen over the last couple of days. It was like a game of chicken, seeing which one would break first.  
  
"So!" Jim clapped his hands together. "We were just getting ready for lunch. You two hungry? We've got Chinese or Mexican. We normally call it in, either place delivers. Or we can walk down and pick it up."  
  
Tristan shrugged out of his black leather jacket. "Sounds good to me. Honey? You care what we get?"  
  
Dropping her hands, Naomi turned. "I'm not here to eat. I want to know how this happened."  
  
Jim found himself her target.  
  
"Naomi, don't," Blair said wearily. He was ignored.  
  
"Jim?" A perfectly raised eyebrow issued a challenge.  
  
"Don't look at me, Naomi," Jim said. "I found out after the fact, too. What did Tristan tell you?"  
  
"We met a few seconds ago," Tristan admitted. "Down on the sidewalk."  
  
"I flew straight from …" She waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. So, you two are saying neither one knew? Then how did he get hooked up with a company doctor?"  
  
"Mom!" Blair thumped a clenched fist against his thigh and got the 'talk to the hand' gesture from her.  
  
"Naomi, Blair did come to me," Tristan said. "But, he didn't make the decision lightly."  
  
"Was he told he'd be losing long term memory?" she fired back.  
  
Blair raised his chin. "You weren't supposed to know that."  
  
"Tapas is a company man. He's required to report to me," Tristan explained.  
  
The situation was escalating. Naomi paced the room, her limp stealing her normal grace. Blair watched her move back and forth, his own emotions close to the surface and nearly spilling over. The very air seemed to crackle like static under high tension power lines.   
  
Naomi was the first to blow. "Blair never should have made the decision in the first place! You know that! God, Tristan! You're in his life for just a few months and look what's happened!"  
  
"MOM!" Blair admonished in horror.  
  
Tristan was the second to blow. "I've been in his life from the second he was born! Don't give me that, Naomi. We made that decision together. I will not have you –"  
  
Blair might have been the last to erupt, but he didn't come last in the special effects department. "NO!" he yelled at both of them, throwing both hands out. "I'm not - repeat - NOT letting this happen." Stabbing the air first toward his mother, then toward his father, Blair laid down the law, his voice quiet, commanding and strong. "I'm an adult, people. I made my choice, just me. Not Tristan. Not Jim. Not even the damn doctor. Everyone clear?"   
  
No one answered.  
  
Blair closed his eyes. He rubbed his forehead. "Good, I'm going to lie down. You guys eat… whatever. Jim and I are going out later. We're working on a case. It's important." He turned away and stormed into his room, leaving behind a thick silence.   
  
Jim watched Naomi and Tristan glare at each other, neither giving an inch.  
  
"Okay, then." Jim reached for the cordless. "Mexican it is."  
  
The light knock on his door caused Blair to glance at his desk clock. Barely an hour had passed.  
  
"Sandburg, it's me."  
  
"Come in," Blair said, rolling on his side and pushing off the futon to sit on the edge. His head still ached.   
  
Jim stuck his head through the doorway. "Your folks are gone." He held up a white bag. "I got lunch."  
  
A whiff of melted cheese made Blair's stomach growl. "Thanks, Jim."  
  
They ate at the kitchen table. Neither man talked while they devoured the enchiladas; chicken for Blair, beef for Jim. Blair drank the large glass of water, hoping to tame his headache. What he wouldn't give for twenty-four hours of solid sleep.   
  
Blair sighed. "Sorry about the family feud, man. Who knew having two parents was so noisy?"   
  
Jim finished carefully scraping the last of the sauce from his plate before standing to carry it to the sink. "It's fine, Sandburg." Jim rinsed his plate. "Your Mom's reaction was honest. I felt the same way when I found out, actually."  
  
Great, now they were back square one. "I wish Naomi would just let it go," Blair said. He frowned down at his food, his earlier appetite waning. "I know what she'll do; overanalyze it to death. I just want to move forward… what?"  
  
Jim was grinning at him as he leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. "You, Mr. Pot."  
  
Oh, yeah. So, Blair sometimes overanalyzed stuff as well. "Okay, I come by it honestly." He felt a smile bloom and felt a little better. The food, the water, whatever – he noticed his headache was not so bad. "I know she cares, but she needs to realize I've been dressing myself and going 'big potty' for years now."  
  
Jim snorted. "Well, maybe when you stop leaving wet towels on the floor…"  
  
Blair looked puzzled. "Wet towels? Me?"  
  
"You."  
  
"Uh oh, I'm having another memory fade, man. Nothing about wet towels is coming to mind."  
  
Jim snorted again, pushing away from the counter with his good hand. "Sieve-head. I'm going upstairs. A couple of hours of downtime works for me. You get the dishes."  
  
"Wow, thanks."  
  
Jim gently cuffed the back of Blair's head as he passed. "Don't mention it."  
  
When the call came from George's informant, they were ready. The meet location turned out to be a small park next to the bay. Jim notified their backup by cell phone en route. Blair fiddled nervously with his backpack in his lap. Jim hadn't wanted him to come along, but the argument had been brief. Once Blair pointed out that being alone, even in the loft, could be a problem if his memory did another 'core dump' on him, Jim had thrown up his hands in surrender.  
  
"You'll stay in the Ford," Jim said, for the third time.  
  
"Right."  
  
It was dark by the time they arrived. The park sat on a small point of land. The city had planted some trees and scattered picnic tables. It was the type used by old couples and young mothers with children, who would wander down from the expensive houses and watch the boats pass. After dark the place seemed empty. Tonight, a cool breeze blew the young leaves on the branches, causing them to rock back and forth in protest.   
  
Jim parked half a block away. The street lights were placed far enough apart to provide some shadow for them. Reaching up to his roof top, Jim hit the switch that disconnected the dome light when a door opened. "Okay, I can see Vanderbilt and Becker parked at the other end."  
  
"Any sign of this George guy?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim surveyed the area. "The tide is out. A person is walking down from around the point, following the waterline. Might be him." Jim keyed a small portable police radio and reported the information to the two backup detectives. They acknowledged him.   
  
"I'm going down to the picnic table now," Jim reported over the radio, tucking it into his jacket's pocket. "Remember, Chief –"  
  
"I got it, Jim. I'm staying put," Blair said. He was beginning to get annoyed.   
  
"I'll wave you in if I think it's safe, okay?"  
  
"Okay."   
  
Jim slipped out and walked away. He skirted around the park, threading through the foliage and approaching the picnic bench like a shadowy afterthought. Blair caught his lower lip between his teeth. He hated this part of police work. Jim was exposed and they knew nothing about George. He might be just what he said, a falsely accused man running afoul of a gangster, or this might be an elaborate setup.  
  
A few minutes later, a person walked up from the waterline. Blair couldn't see much, only that it was someone wearing a coat. After a few minutes, Jim raised his arm. The signal. Blair opened the door and hurried to join them.   
  
"Is this the guy you saw talking to Bernard Yu at the museum?" Jim asked when Blair arrived.  
  
Blair took a look. The man with Jim was heavy, with a broad forehead and flat planes to his face. He looked about Jim's age. He did look familiar. "I think so." The wind tossed Blair's hair and he caught a handful to hold back from his face.  
  
"I remember you," the stranger said, looking at Blair. "You were teaching some kids, in the totem pole room."  
  
Blair nodded.   
  
"Okay, so you're telling me you and Bernard were friends?" Jim asked.   
  
The man, Blair guessed it was the George guy, jerked his head up and down. He glanced around fearfully. "I met him last year, when I first started keeping Dicky's books."  
  
Oh, boy. Blair shifted his stance. In the movies, the sucker that played the part of the mobster's bookkeeper always got killed. How often does life imitate art?  
  
"Dicky was losing money. He spends it before it even comes in; trips, booze, women," George explained. "He doesn't listen to reason, either. His high-price girlfriend left him because of it. Well, that and because Bernie showed her how to start her own legitimate business."  
  
"Are you talking about Lucile Swath?" Jim asked.  
  
George smiled. "She called herself Lucy Swan back when she lived with Dicky."  
  
"So, why's he telling everyone you killed Bernard?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim crossed his arms. "I think I know." He lifted his chin a bit and gave George a hard look. "You were there when he was killed, weren't you?"  
  
George nodded, his face crumpled. "God… I never thought he'd follow me. I was meeting with Bernard. My second cousin is the head waiter, he got us in. Bernard was going to help me. Set up a meet with the feds, I'd get amnesty. You know, that witness protection thing?"  
  
The truth smacked Blair in the face. "Oh my God… Dicky killed his own brother?"  
  
Jim held up a hand, stilling the talk, his attention seemingly fixed on something else. Sharp blue eyes searched the area around them urgently. "We've got a bogie."  
  
Blair reworked the unfamiliar word in his mind: unidentified threat. "Dicky?" he whispered.  
  
"Maybe," Jim answered grabbing George's arm. "Come on, I'm placing you under protective custody."  
  
George's fear radiated off his body in all directions. Blair felt for the guy. Dicky was nuts. If he killed his own brother, he'd have no problem murdering his accountant… and anyone else that threatened him. Blair followed Jim closely up the graveled path toward the street. Seeing Jim had turned George loose and was reaching behind, as if searching blindly, Blair latched on to the back of Jim's shirt.   
  
Without warning, Jim spun and shoved both his charges off the path, down a small slope into a hedge of tall shrubs. The prickly leaves attacked Blair's bare skin.   
  
The first bullet ricocheted off a small boulder to their left. Blair instinctively hunched down.   
  
"Sniper!" Jim shouted into the radio. "Northeast! Rooftop!"  
  
Shouts answered, backup was alerted.   
  
Jim's face was inches from Blair's ear. He could feel his friend's breath on his neck.  
  
"Chief, keep him down. You stay down."  
  
Jim was going to leave them both here. Blair didn't like the idea. Sure, Jim had a gun and all, but no one to watch his back. "Jim, I want to –"  
  
George was already on his stomach in the dirt; Blair was shoved down practically on top of him. He felt Jim's knee dig forcefully into the small of his back and he grunted in surprise. Jim pressed something small and hard into Blair's hand, his back up revolver. Okay, Blair got the message. He'd stay put.  
  
"No argument," Jim commanded in a harsh whisper. Then he was gone.  
  
The unmistakable odor of urine reached Blair's nose and he gently moved off George to burrow into the duff next to him. Somehow, knowing there was another person that was more scared than he was comforted the police observer. "It's going to be okay, man," Blair whispered to the frightened accountant. "Jim's the best."  
  
George didn't answer, remaining prone, face pressed into his folded arms.  
  
Blair had a decent view of the street, but not the rooftops beyond. Had Jim spotted the sniper? Or just heard him? Perhaps he followed the trajectory of the bullet and guessed. Even before Jim's sentinel abilities kicked in, he'd been a soldier with combat experience. This was old hat for Jim.   
  
Right?   
  
Blair fisted a handful of dry leaves, driving brittle thorns into his palm and finger pads. He didn't want to wait here. He wanted to know Jim was okay. On the other hand, he had no desire to run into one of Dicky's armed goons. Besides, he had to keep George safe.   
  
A vague memory haunted him; another time when he'd been scrambling in the dirt. Jim had been in danger.  
  
The memory slipped away.  
  
Jim ran though the manicured grounds belonging to a house that faced the street. He could hear Becker and Vanderbilt running toward him, herding the sniper in his direction.   
  
Perfect.   
  
Jim ducked behind a parked car and waited. It wasn't long before a dark shape pounded between two houses, clearing a low bush. Jim got a quick look through the car's windows. It was the thug from the Chinese restaurant where he and Blair had interviewed Dicky. The man was dressed all in black. His hands were empty. He must have tossed the rifle. When the thug was a stride away from the bumper, Jim stepped out and dug a shoulder into the running man's midsection. Both men went down into the damp grass.   
  
"Cascade pol-"   
  
A fist caught him in the gut and cut off his warning. Jim blocked the next punch heading for his face. He had landed badly; the ground crowded his right arm. Jim rolled away, just to get some maneuvering room. The thug made the mistake of trying to follow. Jim rose in a fluid motion and delivered a roundhouse punch to the face, which bowled the hired gun onto his back.   
  
Jim didn't have time for any more fun. Blair was alone with George. He drew and pointed his Sig at the moaning man rolling back and forth in the grass, both hands covering his bleeding nose. " –lice, you're… under… arrest."  
  
"Jim!" Becker arrived, with Vanderbilt a few steps behind him. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Jim said, still trying to pull air back into his chest. That punch had knocked all his wind out.  
  
Watching the two cops expertly frisk the prisoner – they found a small revolver in his belt – and cuff both hands behind his back, Jim managed to get to his feet. God, his gut ached. The guy might have a glass jaw, but he knew how to pack a punch. Jim stood, extending his hearing back toward the park.   
  
Voices. He heard voices, Blair and…   
  
"Shit!" Dicky must have doubled around. Jim broke into a run, crossing the dark street. He cursed again, knowing the park was a good three hundred feet away.  
  
Becker turned to his partner, amazed. "See, this is why no one can work with him. You stay. I'll back him up."  
  
Blair knew they were in trouble. Someone was approaching and Jim was a hell of a lot quieter than this guy. He nudged George with an elbow. "Can you scoot back?"  
  
"Na huh."   
  
Okay, then. They'd just lie very still and hope the crunching shoes on gravel passed by.   
  
"Get out," a very serious sounding male voice commanded. "I can see you both."  
  
Blair lifted his head. It was dark, but he could make out a man standing next to the picnic table. The streetlight backwashed his profile and Blair could see it glint off the gun in his hand.   
  
Wonderful.  
  
Blair tucked Jim's backup gun into his belt, knowing his flannel shirt would cover it. "We're coming out, okay? Don't get all weird on us."   
  
George seemed reluctant to stand, however. He stayed in the shrubs, whimpering softly.  
  
"Get up!" Dicky ordered, his words slurred. "Damn you. My brother is d-dead. It's your fault!"  
  
Blair kept his hands up. He watched Dicky approach, standing just to one side. Sure enough, the gangster seemed only to care about the cowering accountant on the ground. Maybe Blair could use the hidden gun. But then what? Shoot? Threaten to shoot?   
  
"He said you killed your brother," Blair explained carefully.  
  
"NO!"   
  
Blair was certain he saw Dicky sway. Was the man drunk?   
  
"I loved my brother." A harsh sob broke and the gun wavered. "I didn't mean to hit him that hard. But he kept messing with my b-business."  
  
Blair noticed nothing was said about the butcher knife. He keep his eye on the gun, tensing. Dicky was near now. He wasn't much taller than Blair and didn't look very strong, but looks could be deceiving. Blair just knew he'd rather try wrestling the guy than risk shooting him.  
  
"P-please, Mr. Yu," George said fearfully. "I'm sorry. I swear I won't go to the police."  
  
Helloooo, you already did.   
  
Blair tried not to breathe. It appeared Dicky had forgotten Blair was even in the same park.   
  
One.  
  
More.  
  
Step.  
  
Blair leaped. He caught the gun hand and yanked it upward as the gun fired. The recoil traveled up Blair's own arm and shook his body. God! How big was that gun? Dicky struggled. Blair's arms were occupied just keeping the gun safely pointed up, so he drove his right knee up as hard as he could and felt it connect; a solid hit to the groin.  
  
With a howl, the gangster released the gun and fell to the gravel, curling into a tight ball.  
  
"Sandburg!"  
  
"Jim!"  
  
Jim skidded to a stop. "You okay?"   
  
"Yeah." Blair held the gun out. "Here, take it, will ya?"  
  
Jim took the gun and checked the safety just as a second man ran up.  
  
"Ellison? Everything okay?" He eyed the group, then saw the gangster writhing on the ground. "Is that our suspect?"  
  
"Sandburg took him down." Jim was leaning over Dicky, patting for weapons, pulling out handcuffs.  
  
"Ah, Jim? Be nice and cuff his hands in front? Okay?" Blair made a guilty face. "He's kinda… hurting."  
  
After booking Richard Yu and seeing he was properly guarded at the hospital, they went to the station to finish the paperwork. Jim knew he had a good chance of getting at least tomorrow morning off. If he played his cards correctly, Simon might give him the whole day. He and Blair could relax. Then Jim remembered; Naomi and Tristan were still in the picture.   
  
Only two detectives occupied the bullpen, working hard in front of their computer monitors. Jim raised a hand in greeting as they entered, then pointed toward his own computer. "You mind bringing up the report? I need a file from Simon's office."  
  
"Sure," Blair responded, skirting around the desk and dropping into Jim's chair.   
  
Jim found the file he'd left with Simon sitting in the man's in-box. He joined Blair, pulling the extra desk chair close. Blair was a faster typist. If Jim dictated, they'd be done by midnight. "We'll need enough to make probable cause for high bail, that'll make the prosecutor happy. If the hospital doesn't keep him very long, they'll get him on tomorrow's prelim docket. I can write a detailed report later."  
  
The screen was still asking for the password.  
  
"Chief?"   
  
Blair stared at the sign on screen, his forehead creased. "I should know this, huh?"  
  
Blair knew Jim's sign on, his PIN number at the ATM – hell, he even knew his social security number. A little more of his friend's memory was slipping away.   
  
Tapas needed to isolate whatever was causing this.   
  
"Jags-4-me," Jim whispered. "The number four."  
  
Blair typed it in, not meeting Jim's gaze.   
  
At ten minutes before one they were done. Printing the last of the report, Jim made three copies while Blair saved the original file and powered down the computer. Jim left one copy with Rhonda in an interoffice envelope made out to the prosecutor's office, marked urgent. The other two copies he left on Simon's desk.   
  
"Ready?" Jim asked.  
  
Blair shut off the desk lamp and stood. "Oh, yeah."  
  
When they arrived back in the loft, Jim could have slept propped in a corner. The message machine was blinking. He dutifully hit the button, leaning tiredly against the sofa back.   
  
"Blair? This is Doctor Tapas. Call me first thing in the morning. Page me anytime after seven. I've got good news."  
  
While Jim played the rest of the messages which were all hang-ups, Blair materialized at Jim's side, his hopeful gaze fixed on the small box. "You think?"  
  
"We'll set the alarm and call him," Jim promised. The loft was secured and Jim longed for his bed, but a hand stopped him before he could reach the stairs.  
  
"Jim, let me change your bandage," Blair said, pointing at Jim's hand. "It's filthy."  
  
Jim looked. Blair was right. The white gauze was almost black with grime. Blair was tugging him around to the front of the sofa and pushing him gently down. Jim let his body relax into the sofa. It felt good to be home, like things were returning to normal. Blair was back, sitting on the coffee table and attacking his bandaged hand with medical scissors.   
  
"Does it hurt?" Blair asked.  
  
"No. Just itches."   
  
"How'd this happen?" Blair's eyes were on his task. The old gauze wrapping was off. Blair had a soapy washrag in his hand and carefully cleaned the skin around the sutures. He'd even brought a small bowl of water to rinse.   
  
"It's not important how it happened," Jim said lightly.  
  
"It's just, you don't normally get cut. This looks like a knife fight injury." The hand clean, Blair used a towel to pat it dry and started fashioning a new bandage from the first aid kit supplies.   
  
"What do you know about knife fights?"   
  
"Fine, don't tell me then," Blair replied in a hurt tone. He finished applying the last strip of tape and hurriedly starting picking up the mess.  
  
Jim captured an arm. "Hey."  
  
Blair paused, returning Jim's look.   
  
The phone rang.  
  
"I'll get it." Blair moved fast, snapping up the phone. "Sandburg."  
  
Normally Jim didn't listen in on phone conversations. But it was after one in the morning and he was curious, so he made an exception, recognizing Tapas' voice on the other end. The man sounded excited.   
  
"Blair, I'm sorry if I woke you. I've been calling every hour."  
  
"No, not at all." Blair sat down at Jim's side. "You have good news?"  
  
"We found it, Blair! We know what is reacting to the drug and causing your long term memory loss. It's phycocyanin."  
  
Blair frowned. "I've never heard of it. Are you sure?"  
  
"It's not as bad as it sounds. It's a natural color pigment; a blue. Actually, it's found in water plants."  
  
"Water plants?" Blair asked, looking to Jim as if for understanding. "How would I be getting near water plants? We don't do a lot of swimming in Cascade, man. It's too cold."  
  
Jim had an idea. "Hold it a second." Jim headed for the kitchen. He opened the cupboard that held all of Blair's herbs and junk he liked to play with. Finding the bottle he wanted, he read the label as he hurried back to Blair. "Here, Sandburg."  
  
Blair took the bottle. "My freeze-dried algae?"  
  
"Yes!" Tapas shouted from his end. "You take algae? That would do it! Some algae have a blue-green color. If you've been taking that as a supplement, stop. In fact, don't eat anything that's blue for at least two months. I'll evaluate you after that and we'll see what your workup shows."  
  
A wide grin was forming on Blair's face, replacing the confusion. "So… it's over? I'm not going to forget anymore?"  
  
Tapas sounded exuberant, like a man that had been pardoned. "It's over! I believe some of your forgotten long term memories might even come back, once the chemical cocktail in your brain fades away."  
  
"YES!" Blair shouted, clutching the cordless tightly with both hands.   
  
Jim squeezed his shoulder, his own smile stretching his face. Life was good again.  
  
"Is Detective Ellison with you? Is he awake?" Tapas asked.  
  
Blair was laughing. "If he was, he wouldn't be now. You want to talk with him?"  
  
"Please."  
  
Blair handed over the phone, looking ready to break into a happy dance right in the middle of the loft. Jim wouldn't blame him if he did. In fact, he'd be tempted to join in. "Tapas?"  
  
"Detective?"  
  
'Call me Jim."  
  
"Jim, I wanted to talk to you about your samples."  
  
Jim frowned. He'd forgotten about them. When they were trying to find the reason for Blair's unusual reaction, they had wanted to compare Blair's results with someone he lived with, to see if it was environmental. "What about them? I can promise you, I don't drink Sandburg's algae crap." Jim dodged Blair's playful punch by standing up and taking a few steps toward the windows.  
  
"Not that. Do you remember when I explained about Blair's unusual cell formation? His nerve cells and how he has synaptic bulbs in the wrong locations?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"You have similar nerve cells, but different. It's as if the two compliment each other, it's incredible."  
  
"What?" Jim didn't mean to raise his voice, or sound upset. The effect was cold water to Blair's jubilance. In an instant, Blair was back at his side. Jim held up a hand to delay the question on Blair's face. "What are you saying?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet. I do know this isn't environmental or the early stages of an illness. This is genetic. If I were to guess, I'd say the two of you are related somehow."  
  
"That's not possible, doc. Blair and I are in no way related."  
  
Blair looked shocked. "Huh?"  
  
"Well, something has linked you two together," Tapas insisted. "I need to take more samples. This is a huge discovery and needs research. As far as I know, you two are the only humans ever recorded with the condition. It could even tie to physical abilities that you're not aware of."  
  
Jim's blood froze. This was not a good thing. He forced his voice to remain impassive. "Look, doc. No offence here, but this is probably some machine glitch."  
  
"I can assure you –"  
  
Jim cut him off. "Can we talk about this later? It's late and we've just spent all night catching a killer."  
  
"Oh, of course. I'm so sorry." Tapas sounded sincere. "Would you both come by my office later today? We need to talk."  
  
"Okay, and thanks again for getting back to Blair about the algae thing." Jim replaced the phone.  
  
"You're scaring me, Jim," Blair whispered in awe. "I've never seen you looking this freaked."  
  
"Chief, we've got problems."   
  
Jim repeated the information to his friend. Blair took the news well; in fact, he even started to get that gleam in his eyes. The one that always warned Jim that sentinel testing was about to take place. Jim wasn't surprised. Blair was a scientist, after all.  
  
"What's the problem, Jim? This could be the sentinel proof I missed." Blair narrowed his eyes. "But why didn't your military doctors catch this before?"  
  
"Who knows? Maybe all the tests and practicing you've had me do somehow caused this to grow, become more obvious." Jim ran a hand down his face. "We have bigger problems to worry about."  
  
"What?"  
  
Jim cupped a hand around the back of Blair's neck and squeezed. He leaned down, eyes level with his friend. "Blair, you didn't hear the way Tapas sounded. And he's a 'spook' doctor, remember? He's already hinted to me that he feels this cellular structure might manifest into physical abilities. Now he's linking you to it. We're looking at tons of testing."  
  
"But… I'm not… you're the…" Blair's eyes got a far away look, his gaze shifted as if seeing something not in the room. He blinked, focusing back on Jim. "Jim, that's ludicrous. You're the sentinel."  
  
"Yeah, and right now, I'm a free sentinel. What do you think would happen if the wrong type of people, like that Chinese guy who kidnapped me before, found out? Now they have reason to study both of us."  
  
Blair sucked in a breath. "Jim, we've got a huge problem," he whispered.  
  
Jim turned Blair loose and rubbed his own forehead as he paced the small area between the TV and sofas. Blair stood as if rooted to the floor, watching him. It was late, but neither of them could afford sleep right now. Not until Jim knew for sure the situation. How far out had the information gone? Was Tapas still holding all the proof? No, wait. There had to be lab technicians involved. Doctors don't do their own work, they send it out. Okay, now at least two people knew, more if they split the task of testing his and Blair's samples.  
  
Sounds of footsteps running stopped Jim in his tracks. He extended his hearing, pinpointing the location of the runner. Light steps, on the stairwell between the second and third floor. A voice spoke.  
  
"If you're awake, it's me, Jim."  
  
"You're mom's on her way," Jim announced, going to the door.  
  
"What?" Blair blurted out. "Naomi's here?"  
  
She wasn't even breathing hard as she jogged into the loft, still favoring her hip. The dress was gone; she wore black jeans and a black long sleeve Tee. With her black knit cap over her head, she reminded Jim of the woman that had gone down to Mexico to get Blair back from Hersch. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Jim checked the hallway out of habit, no one else had followed. He closed and locked the door.  
  
"Mom!" Blair stepped forward.  
  
Naomi took half a second to hug her son, before speaking. "We have a situation."  
  
"I know, Tapas just called and told us," Jim answered. "How many know?"  
  
"Too many, and the wrong ears are listening."  
  
Blair's attention bounced between them. "What? Who?"  
  
"Options?"   
  
Naomi closed her eyes. "Few, I'm afraid. We need time. But neither of you can afford it. Tristan has already taken off. He's going to try and sterilize the leak on the East Coast. I'm heading down to Mercer Island to do what I can."  
  
Blair latched onto his mother's arm. "What are you talking about?"  
  
She turned to him, her face softening. "Honey, this is the nasty part of my world. The part I'd hoped you'd never see."  
  
Blair bristled. "You're doing it again, Naomi. I'm not a kid. Tell me! Is Jim in danger?"  
  
She nodded. "You both are. We have red flags, like early warning alarms that go off whenever your name is mentioned. Last year we added Jim's." She cast a look toward Jim. "They both went off tonight. Tapas is a good man, he wouldn't have intentionally done this, but the wrong person must've gained access to your records. NCID was just alerted and is on scramble. I figure you have one and a half, two hours tops."  
  
"NCID?" Blair asked.  
  
"National Center for Infectious Disease, Chief," Jim answered grimly. "They're coming to pick us both up, aren't they?"  
  
Naomi nodded, her eyes bright.  
  
Blair stepped backwards. "No… we're not a… Mom, they can't do that. We've got to straighten this out."  
  
"By the time someone does, you'll be transferred over to some black agency within the government. No one will find you," Naomi warned. "Not even your father and me."  
  
Jim made a decision. "Don't worry, Sandburg. They're not going to find us." He turned back to Naomi. "How long do you and Tristan need?"  
  
Her lips turned white as she thought. "It might take time. It's not going to be easy."  
  
"We need a system, some way you can tell us it's safe to come in," Jim said.  
  
A tear fell, Naomi wiped it away impatiently before reaching for the pad and pen by the cordless phone. "I'll give you some phone numbers, give me forty-eight to get them activated and only call if it's an emergency. I'll also write down a web address. I only need twenty-four to get it up and running. Check it once every other day or so. I'll use it to update you both on the situation."  
  
"Mom?" Blair sounded lost.   
  
Naomi ripped off the paper and shoved it toward Jim. She turned and gathered Blair into her arms. "I love you."   
  
"What's happening?" Blair asked, returning her hug out of habit.  
  
"Both of you are in danger, honey." She gently bumped her forehead against her son's. "Take care of your Sentinel. I have to go. I'll see you soon."  
  
She turned him loose and gave Jim a quick hug, complete with a kiss on his cheek. "Keep him safe, Jim."  
  
"I will." Jim watched her slip out without a backward glance. He looked at one very shell-shocked Blair. "We're out of here in thirty minutes. You'll need to carry whatever you take, make it light."  
  
Blair stared at the contents of his room. What was Jim thinking? What was Naomi thinking? Surely they were both totally overreacting. After all, his father was supposed to be a big shot in the spy world. They couldn't legally snatch two US citizens out of their home without reason.  
  
Jim poked his head in. "Finished?"  
  
Shit, Blair hadn't even started. "Ah…"  
  
Jim entered and lifted Blair's larger knapsack off a hook on the wall. He tossed it onto the futon and started opening dresser drawers. "How many of these journals talk about us?" Jim jerked a chin toward the full bookshelf against the wall as he stuffed clothing into the pack.  
  
Blair was so amazed at Jim's actions; it took a second for the question to register. Jim was packing for him?  
  
"Sandburg!"  
  
"Ah, one, man, only one." Blair licked his lips. "After that 'Sons of the Dragon' incident, I got Kelso to put it all in a safety deposit box."  
  
"Good. Make sure you bring anything that has your sentinel research with us. Got it?" Jim pierced him with a steely look.  
  
"Got it." Blair started pulling out desk drawers and rummaging through the contents. Some of his generic stuff, pre-Jim, was still floating around on computer disks. Which raised another question. "Jim? What about my laptop?"  
  
Jim paused, a pair of rolled up socks in one hand. "Anything on it?"  
  
"No, just software. I keep all my stuff on disks."  
  
"It's too bulky. Just dump the temporary memory and leave it." Jim resumed packing.   
  
Reality came crashing down. People were going to come into their home and go through all their belongings. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. "This is unreal. We gotta call Simon. He'll help."  
  
Jim turned with a frown. "You want Daryl and Joan in danger? Remember the bomb that destroyed the bull pen? How many people do you want to involve?"  
  
Something must have told Jim just how sick Blair's stomach suddenly got. How the world was suddenly graying. How gravity was distorting, because Blair was having a hard time standing up. Jim caught both Blair's upper arms and guided him to the edge of the futon to sit.   
  
"I'm sorry, Blair. I'm not mad at you. It's just we don't have time for discussions and votes. You're going to have to trust me, completely, without question. Got it?"  
  
Barely able to summons up enough spit to swallow, Blair nodded. "You should be mad, all this is my fault."  
  
Jim sighed. He turned back to the pack and zipped it shut. Going to Blair's closet, he flung aside hanging garments until he found a heavy flannel shirt and a jacket. Pulling them off the hangers, he tossed them to land next to Blair. "Put those on. Then I need your help out in the living room."  
  
Blair slipped into the shirt and carried the jacket. Jim had his pack. He dumped it by a similar one already resting against the door. Crooking a finger, Jim walked over to the high brick wall in front of the stairs. He took Blair by both shoulders and repositioned him until his back pressed into the wall.   
  
"Cup your hands. I need a boost."   
  
Blair bent his knees, braced his shoulders against the roughness and made a step with his hands. Jim gracefully stepped up, reaching high and came back down with a small oilskin package.   
  
"What's that?" Blair asked.  
  
"Money and fake ID's." Jim smiled, patting Blair's cheek. "Ever since the 'Sons of the Dragon', I've been thinking something like this could happen to us. Naomi and I put this together."  
  
"You did?" Blair followed him back to the door. When Jim lifted his coat off the hook and slipped it on, Blair donned his own jacket.  
  
"Yep." Jim took a second to look around the loft, his gaze resting on the table, the stairs, fireplace and the doors to Blair's room. "Chief, I don't understand genetics, science or how a nerve cell works; but I know this - the second you knocked me down and that garbage truck passed overhead, I knew we had a special connection."  
  
Blair smiled. "This puts a whole new spin on that expression, 'you're getting on my nerves', huh?"  
  
Jim smiled, and then turned serious. "Listen to me, Junior. Whether it had been a bad case of the flu, a broken leg - hell, who knows, both of us end up in the hospital too damn much - my point is this; someone would have stumbled on to us. It was just a matter of time. Got it?"  
  
Blair's chest felt tight, his eyes burned and his nose tickled.   
  
A corner of Jim's mouth quirked upwards. "So, no more guilt trips. It's no one's fault." He opened the door.  
  
Blair picked up his own backpack and checked his pocket for his wallet and keys. He turned to look at the loft. "Are we coming back?"  
  
"If staying away means we stay free, no." Jim pulled Blair out into the hallway and closed the door. "Let's get going. We've got some serious burrowing to do."  
  
The beginning… 


End file.
